How do I write about the intangibles of my own self when the very nature of the trees mesmerizes me? How is it that parts of my very soul are becoming "textured?" Life surrounds me and even the "lifeless" stone changes, not only eroding away but also growing. I stand on the east facing lookout tower. My eyes closed. My mind settled. My feet connecting me to the tower as it ever so slightly moves in the north wind. The entire top of the Mound is covered in a low lying cloud. There is no view of the sun but the morning light causes the blanket of mist to glow. As I stand there just breathing I can feel the water build on my cheeks. When the wind slides past my ears it's as a whispered song I've known from so long ago I can't recall the words, or name. Suddenly the wind stops and only the birds and the water dripping from leaves is all I hear...
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