Greedy for the crunch of rock and sand beneath my feet, the pitch of trail, wind whispering through desert sage and dust, I yearn toward the mountains that ring the valley.
Dim and dusky, they beckon. Shades of beige deepen, flushing violet, mauve, indigo.
Just out of reach.
The city flashes, twinkles, glitters, clamors for attention.
Look at me, she shrieks, look at me, like a ruthless toddler, a narcissistic teen, a desperate old woman, teetering on too-high heels.
The sun slides down, below the softly sharp horizon. The mountains darken, a blue-black constant, always changing, immutable.
If I were a poet, I could capture their patience, their stoic watchfulness.
Immune to the noise, the bells and whistles and horns and braying laughter, too-loud, too-long, the mountains wait.
This, too, shall pass.