Deep in the interior of the Linville gorge on a cold February morning next to the river standing in the creation of the Creator. The sun shines upon the west wall as the wilderness cries out I am alive. The opposing wall of the gorge, hiding in the shadow a slumber. Rock formations stand as centurions testifying to the surrounding timelessness. The Linville River flowing past with authority thundering from the north as a train headed south. Light from the sun with all its intensity revealing what was once hid shining through the limbs of the tall pine, shadows dance about. Flames licking about a small pan holding bread in its unleavenedness. Fresh juice as blood waits nearby in a small worn speckled cup. Cold fresh air drawn into my chest cooling the very core, refreshing the spirit. As the snow begins to fall blanketing nature’s surroundings in its purity. Simultaneously the wind was blowing through the highs, and lows like an orchestra creating music of the land. Smoke hung heavy, and low revealing our presence. Bitterness of the bread unrelenting to the senses, as a reminder of a more difficult time. In a like manner the sharp tart flavor of juice restricting the jaw. At last silence overcomes all but the thump, thump thump of your heart.
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