I drift down the river mystic with the mist, grey and strong. Somewhere above the shoulder of the clouds rose the great mountains, laden with the sun. The passing waters sigh a song with the oars.
I haven't changed a bit. Nothing had changed a bit. The tea is still hot and the steam still dance from its rim. Here time stood still while I went many ways. But then coming back here I only realise its me who missed it all. The mountains never missed me. The shuddering grasses in the wind kept on, moving to the wind's orchestration.
I am grateful nothing has changed.
A wist of cloud escaping from a rift in the mountains. A cold shivering pine bouncing in the belly of the cloud's passing.