It was the light that got up first to play on the mountain. It created a mood of early morning. Later on, its long fingers drifted into a valley and woke up some trees. The trees whispered in a breeze to the undergrowth beneath and to the streams that ran through them.
That woke the streams into a brilliant display of whitecaps, and the light danced along among them as if it had not a care in the world.
But the mountain knew that no day could remain for long and the light would soon have to leave. So it offered a warning to the light with shadows distributed by clouds. But the light would heed nothing among the brilliant white boulders of the streams.
Soon enough a heavy darkness came over the valley. It was accompanied by cold wind. The light fled up the mountain and was gone.
Copyright 2013 George Lowell Tollefson