You, a mountain! So many hours spent facing you, traversing swamped dark fields and flourished Edens to reach you, this mountain, with its stony face and harsh edges, with its unforgiving lines and grandvaliant dimensions. You, a beacon making its claim. From every aspect from where she stands, from every perspective, this vital peak looms before her, to the side of her, somehow unmoving and moving, somehow treacherous and safe, somehow this—you—her private rock to move toward and touch, the coarse mineral that defines you and the silken polish that life has worn onto your surface.
Alas. For months, she wandered and slept-walked and hurried off the trail that leads to you, and turned when she could from you, but the face of your summit was too beloved to abandon for long. Alack: January, when a new year comes. January, when the path looms up to meet her footfalls, and what the mountain will be when she reaches it—a gem, or agate, or quarried fulfillment or release or frustration or satisfaction—she does not know.
(The rock was warm when she lay upon it, so unexpectedly warm that her skin prickled and gooseflesh strutted over her forearms, her thighs: the quiet shock and shiver of the first moments when the chill air settles.)