Storm

A man sits close to his dying campfire, twisting bark from his walking stick and looking out upon a miracle. His camp perches atop a precipice, one last lookout before the trail’s descent back to the world of deep, deep ground and real things. Here the man still has but air to breathe and a vivid landscape to help him dream. Dream differently, perhaps, than the boy nestled against his shoulder and heaving peaceful sighs in the night. The man wonders whether he should wake his son to view the strange vista before him.

The valley is alive with violence. A storm from the northeast is tumbling wildly between the mountain pass, here and gone within several minutes, but terrible in its brief moment of existence. Snow explodes and freezes upon the air, billowing and billowing as if God finally blew the dust from off his tower on high. And there, in the center of the snowstorm, lightning ripples in dazzling flashes, trailing a low murmur of thunder in the air.

The boy stirs, eases open his eyes and looks up to see the awestruck face of his father, lit every now and then by the ghost of lightning in the valley. The boy is too sleepy to speak, and instead he watches curiously as the flashing fades and his father’s face is slowly overtaken by the darkness. All that stirs now is the mingling of their frozen breath. They both shiver with the dying embers, jealous for the stillness so characteristic of the stars. The man finally notices his son is awake, and asks him what he dreamt about.