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On the western horizon
where the sun goes to bed,
there stands the Canadian Rockies,
so majestic in size,
solid and immovable,
yet fluid and ever-changing.
I am awed by their
beauty,
the way the sun reflects off the snow,
making them seem closer than they really are,
a three-dimensional monolith sitting in my own backyard,
sometimes shrouded in clouds,
or resting under the halo of the sun,
while their crevasses hide in the shadows.
At times a mist
covers their peaks,
and they are subdued,
as if a veil has been pulled across the landscape,
making them seem distant and one-dimensional,
a flat backdrop at the edge of a rolling prairie.
And as the sun sets
beyond this mighty fortress of rock,
painting a canvass of red, pink and orange,
the mountains sit in silhouette,
dark and foreboding,
as if hiding a secret deep within their walls.
Spring now gently
invades this frozen rock,
and as the snow melts,
the hillsides turn green,
and palettes of colour dot the meadows.
The mountains are
alive with movement,
new birth,
struggles for survival,
and death.
The cycle of life is
being played out in their bosom,
yet from a distance,
as I survey their silent grandeur,
they appear to be indifferent to the drama taking place
within.
Spring becomes
summer,
penetrating much of this rugged world,
but the highest peak is buried in ice year-round,
a giant glacier,
the birthplace of mighty rivers.
I have stood on that
glacier,
drank from its cold, clear waters,
as they cascade down the ice,
water so pure,
as if the world is new,
and being touched for the very first time,
a frozen paradise,
a fragile cradle of microscopic life.
I love these
mountains,
for their beauty never tires,
and I am content to live in their shadows.
by David Ronald Bruce Pekrul
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