Alpenglow.

It's being at the center of the weather that gives me sway. I don't understand what I'm supposed to do when I'm this tired and it's this dark outside. There's a picture above my bed framed in fenceposts of some dismal backcountry lake, and dark blue pines, and a mass of fog rolling in. I'll never know where it is, in what mountains its cold trout swim. I only know that even now, in the frigid evenings, its banks are still and quiet. I know only that I want to be there. The Cascades, or the Sierra Madres, or Santa Ynez, or the Superstitions. Anywhere up high.