by Callista Woodrich

The mountains are sleeping giants.

Eternally? Are these the fossils, the mummies left behind, many headed and many legged, towering, sloping, gently reaching for the sky, where clouds bend and dance around them? Did they die, perish trying to reach upward? Or are they just asleep?

It would be easy to fall asleep here. It’s so quiet. Only the sound of the wind blows softly through. It sings an ever present and patient lullaby, while the sun splashes golden light on distant peaks. But the light doesn’t seem to bother them, those distant beings.

If they woke up, would they shake off the hardened layers of crust and unwanted passengers? Would they be surprised to find us here, or would they even notice us, so tiny in comparison? Their rest has been so long, eons, incomprehensible to us, the miniscule riders, oblivious to their slumber. Would they stand up and start to wander again, growing even larger, until they finally, finally reach the sky the sun is painting in a kaleidoscope of colors? Will that satisfy them? Or will they reach even further, stand even taller, try to grasp the stars?

Or maybe they won’t wake up at all, just keep sleeping peacefully, lulled by the susurrus of the desert wind.