The Mountains Were Made of Mud
I once thought that all mountains were alike. That was when I was only a child, living in a place where the only mountains were made of sand. I thought that mountains were just like the pictures in books or the shapes in outdoor-gear logos. And still it is tempting to think so, each time I see them rise from distant ground. But now I know that it is foolish to speak of more than one peak, like it is foolish to try and say something real about any more than one person.
Here the ground was rock and mud, seeming fragile, like I could pull it apart with my fingers. But it towered, proving otherwise. Still, the whole mountain was not immutable, not even just a mountain, but only the relief of the infrequent desert rain, the constant wind, the tramp of my own feet, melting, growing, changing.
