A fistful of pine needles drops loosely from yer grasp as you scramble on upwards towards some craggy summit in the Cascades. The inner billy goat erupts from yer legs and each ledge becomes an easy prance. Clack. Hoof. Clack. Bounce. Clop. Skid. Stop.
Arrival. Perched atop yer conquered precipice in awe of yer surroundings, the wind double-takes and smashes back upon you. Stinging nettles of ice assault yer face. You taste pure mountain water in yer pores and bits of dirt on yer lips. Standing upright (wink!) with a clear head, there’s no better time to sample from yer flagon of saison for the seventh (doublewink!) time thusfar.
Surly and stubborn as the white, wooly beasts of the rocky cliffs, your beverage skins the hide of yer tongue with aroma of fresh soil. A poofy blast of warm air heats yer drink and you excavate hidden treasures: delicately preserved floral tones as soothing as a baby goats bleat.
This ridge you’ve been perched on for a time seems stable but erratic for weather. The liquid yer consuming reflects the untamable nature pitted against you. Heaping mounds of moss and bunch grass lay waiting in the valley and bottom of yer glass. Fill up yer lungs and plunge headlong back into the fray.
Down the mountainside with ye towards golden rays of flavor and escape the wobbly skree with yer saison stained hooves.
- 10.12.10
