It is easy to get disoriented by the landscape. The start of the trail is unassuming. Desolate areas for many miles. The land of wind that flows like music. 

The wings of crows flap loudly a few feet above my head. Petrified wood patterns record the passing of years without witnesses. Birds sing, hidden in small berry trees. The sky dissolves every consideration of my complicated comings and goings. It smells like wet soil and wood, like a bold wine. The ground is diverse, I can feel the jagged edges of rocks. Walking on moss makes my legs 

Vibrate. 

Where fallen leaves cover big rocks, walking feels like sliding on fresh fallen snow. Life that starts within the holes of invisible boulders. When I rub my hand on the dried moss clinging to falling bark, it sounds like a finger scratching a microphone, a gentle scoring that burrows into the skin. This sound is sometimes followed by the cracking of trees, like the forrest responding to my touch, a cat purring on my lap. 

The water of the lake is cold. Walking between the aspen feels like walking into family members changing into their fall outfits. I can hear the growl of the mountain, a thumping that follows me throughout the hike, at times I think is a bear or a moose, or falling rocks. I never fount out what was following me.

The birds are friendly, they let me feed them. I take a nap on the forrest floor. After opening my eyes I see the naked sky and the tip of trees swaying. Leaves like clapping hands. Two more miles alone. I run out of breath and lean against a rock. I can feel the grooves made by time. The air feels different.

The mountain’s breath passing through.

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BIG TEX