Cold Vigil

My father, the mountain, speaks to me.

His voice makes my own sound like the excited pica’s. Thunder will talk with him, but never argue. Many come to talk with my father, to look at him and think. Some come to my father looking for gold or other shining children of the earth. Their flesh is sour and makes me feel tired and confused.

I must eat it. My father grows angry if they are left to rot in his shadow. Ice slows rot but cannot stop it. I do not understand how my father can find foul smells offensive. He has no nose!

Perhaps he is nothing but a great nose made of stone? I keep wicked thoughts like this to myself.

My father is sleeping. Winter tires. The snow slows visitors, but cannot stop some, so I must watch over our home more carefully than usual. My father seldom talks in his sleep. It is strange being my own guide. It makes me thoughtful, and sometimes lonesome. In time, will this make me wise like my father? Hope warms.

I am thirsty and wish to visit my brother, the river. He is sluggish and not very talkative in winter, but my thirst has never been a match for him. He likes jokes and riddles. If my father’s visitors say something amusing, I strive to remember it for my brother’s sake. Some of them say strange, funny things as I break them.

He laughs loudest at those.