The mountain has always been there.
Ally has seen it every day,
rising beyond the field,
steady and familiar.
It is not new.
Today the clouds move differently.
Thin shapes stretch across the sky,
and the wind runs after them.
It lifts the grass.
It brushes her face.
Her eyes follow the movement
until the clouds pass over the mountain.
Her gaze does not drop.
The mountain holds it.
The herd grazes behind her.
Grass bends.
Warm breath settles and shifts.
The mountain does not.
Some say something lives there.
High up.
Past the last line of trees.
Ally has never gone that far.
She stands still and keeps looking.
At first, it is only a shape.
Dark against the sky.
She narrows her eyes.
The longer she looks,
the less certain the edges become.
Stone thins into cloud.
Cloud gathers weight.
The wind passes again.
Her eyes ache, just slightly.
She does not look away this time.
For a moment,
the mountain feels nearer.
Then farther.
Then strange.
As if it knows she is there.
Ally blinks.
When she lowers her head,
the field feels unfamiliar.
The near things return slowly.
Grass.
Wind.
The quiet weight of the herd.
The mountain remains.
No nearer.
No farther.
Only there.
Ally lowers her head and begins to graze.
The grass tastes the same.
But she chews more slowly than before.
After a while,
she looks up once more.
The mountain has not moved.
Neither has she.
