Waiting

When I was standing at the peak of the old mountain, feeling the cold blowing wind and seeing a rolling sea of fog in all directions, waiting seemed the most natural thing in the world.  A literature of conjured images could have flooded my synapses like bad champagne, could have, but did not.  In its place was small talk and the simple conviction that it was good to wait.  With that conviction patience is easy.  When the clouds parted, even just for a second, we cheered.

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