Mountainside

I sit on the mountainside,
on a slab of rock that looked flatter
before I sat down.

The grass around it is wet.
Not soaked,
just enough that when I run my hand through it
my palm comes back cold.

The morning has that smell
I never know what to call.
Dirt, maybe.
Leaves.
Pine somewhere close.
Everything damp from the night.

It smells new.

There is dew tucked down between the rocks,
still hiding where the sunlight hasn’t gotten yet,
and little weeds growing out of cracks
that don’t look wide enough
for anything to grow in.

I look out.

Trees.

More than I can count, obviously,
but that isn’t really what I mean.

They just keep going.

Green mostly,
with patches of yellow and brown starting to show,
then another ridge behind them,
and another one after that
until the last one barely looks green anymore.

The sky takes up almost half of everything.

Blue.
A ridiculous amount of blue.

There’s a road down below.
I can see it for a few seconds
before the trees swallow it,
then it shows up again somewhere else.

I wonder where it goes.

A breeze comes up the side of the hill
and the dry grass scratches against the rock.

I sit there for a while.

That’s it.