The wind rolled off the frigid peaks, a slight breeze at first, whispering to the huddled congregation, touching their cheeks with a hint of chill, an icy kiss. At the edge a lone watcher glanced up as a shadow began to creep, and frowned. No, he thought to himself, it was too early. Too soon. They should still have weeks. Merely a squall. A short summer rain, certainly. Yet within moments the breeze became a persistent howl. The shadow deepened. The sun, which had been warm and lazy only an hour before, had become so much a ghost. The watcher stood and stared, and found himself bracing against sudden gusts that threatened to strip the very warmth from his bones. Shouts from behind grew in frequency and intensity as the gathering screamed to begin to pack up. To move. NOW.
Yet he knew it was too late. What was coming was too early, and too fierce, and they, they were too late. Had no warning. Had no time.
A single flake of snow fell past his eyes in a final moment of calm, and then the gale hit, and a white darkness came that smelled of wintry death.
The mountains had come for them. |
Add photograph to your favorites
Add photographer to your favorites
Photographer found comment helpful.