Note: I did not have a good weekend two weeks ago, and this inspired piece of prose was one of two highlights (other was buying a chapbook of poetry from a non-writer) for that weekend.
Early Sunday morning, temps are in the hi 60's, masquerading the opening salvo of the dog days of summer that are fast approaching, a balding middle-aged man takes a seat in his backyard office with the stated intent of writing.
While he is putting himself into that proper frame of mind, the sleeping giant that is the mountain decides to start his day in much the same way and for the same reason as well. For while our balding middle-aged man is looking to create magic with the written word, the mountain is looking to create magic with the written musical note.
The sun, being an integral component and contributor to the mountain's musical efforts, slowly wakes up and shines its rays through the scattered branches and trees that populate the mountain. The birds, upon being gently caressed and nudged awake by the sun's rays, open their eyes and begin to yawn and stretch.
One by one, each bird greets the sun and their fellow neighbors in a cacophony of sound that brings pure joy and pleasure to anyone and everyone within shouting distance.
A bird sings out in a deep throated warble and another answers in a warning type of call. Still yet another answers like a cricket and within several seconds others join in to create a wondrously orchestral piece, complex yet melodiously simple in its execution.
Mesmerized, the balding middle-aged writer stops his prep work and sits back in his chair to inhale and enjoy the beauty of the mountain's latest orchestral piece.
In addition to hearing the birds who reside at the edge of the mountain sing, he can hear music originating deep in the rear of the mountain drift to the foreground and gently touch and caress his spirit.
As gradual as the orchestral piece started so was the way it ended. One by one, each section of the orchestra faded away until at last the only one left playing was the low running hum of the various bugs and insects that called the mountain home as well. Eventually that ended as well, leaving the balding middle-aged writer alone in quiet solitude with the mountain and the rising sun.
Slowly sitting back up, the balding middle-aged writer gives the mountain a long stare. Not hard, for if one happened to take a glance at our friend, they would see in his eyes a remembrance of when life was easier and a longing to return to those days of yesteryear. Afterwards, our friend flashes a smile and returns to the task of getting into the right frame of mind, albeit with a lighter step and a freshened spirit.