We five are huddled around a fire that flings its embers into the dried out underbrush, making me worry that the these deadened wisps of plants will soon come alive with an angry orange glow.
Pocketknives cut open food packets; small stoves that look like torches are ignited, water is boiling, and the wind charges up and around and through the small campsite. It's been doing that since these mountains were formed millions of years ago... we're just passer-byers, the next continuation of a long line of people that have looked out over this valley while the sun dies out.
The tents get set up, and their feebleness in the face of such a wild wind is a small example of the power that we don't have.
Fleeting, fleeting, oh this is fleeting. These mountains and hills laugh at our problems, our dramas, our lives that float in and out so quickly. What else could they do?
The bright lights of the Hudson River Valley blink on and the thick night descends in a rolling fury.
The lights go out.