Matt W Cook

Loud.

Crash.

Scrabbling for attention.

We shout and dance and sing, desperate for the eyes of the people around us. We spin and toil, joyless for a reward always in our dreams but never in our hands. We make and break. We buy and break. We break and throw away and nothing is left. More. More. More. And in our noise we forget.

And the mountain stands silent, silently screaming louder than us all, if only we had the ears to hear her. Naked she stands, behind her veil of cloud and frost. She tries to be shy and quiet, though she knows not how. And in her timid stance she declares the glory of the mover and shaker who pulled her from the ground and stood her on her feet. What does she do that demands our gaze? What work does she accomplish that deserves our wonder? Only that she is.

Thank you for the music that you need not ears to hear. Thank you for the sights that do not require eyes. Thank you for beauty. Thank you for glory. Thank you for betrothing me to the carver of the mountains and the painter of song.