Upon mountain trails, the hiker might see signs of an old sheep herder, the craftsperson, who had built a hut of fallen trees in a meadow. It now stands abandoned upon bare fields of wild green.
Spring blooms still hold their heads, shyly, with memories of teeth from a flock who no longer adhere to a seasonal schedule.
A trickle sounds through the open space, a small creek, exposing the oldest glacier waters, forming rivulets upon its canvas.
Higher upon the mountain, rocks and caverns, wake up from under ice, hear the song of the sun for the first time, rough is the sculpture of these old children.
The hiker, still following the trail, sees the bare mountain as it really is, then later, by memory, paints the mountain.
Fields unafraid. Snow with its best face on.
(Photo: Black Butte from Three Fingered Jack)