Photo by A. Chesley
The flat top of Long’s Peak was large but was almost empty when Bobbi summated and Bobbi, who was small, made it look even larger by her presence. She stood tiny and insignificant at the East edge of its flat peak a living demonstration that the mountain was magnificent and formidable. She glanced briefly at the car-sized boulders scattered like peanut shells, the storm clouds looming like New York skyscrapers, the very air sparkling as if tiny bits of metal and the thin air were dancing and they didn’t care who knew it.
Bobbi tried to make a phone call. She tried to text, tweet, to get on Facebook, and to take a photo. It didn’t work. Head ducked, she stabbed her fingers at the smooth glass of her device while, above her, salmon and slate curtains of clouds pulled around the great golden ball of the sun. The sun slid softly into the horizon, the hot plasma paramour of the heavens against bed sheets of azure sky. Its magnetic fields shimmied; it jiggled its hydrogen and helium suggestively. In fact, the sun, in all its 4.6 billion years, had had never set in so seductive a manner. Soon it would be dark and the sun was figuring on getting busy later with a nice bottle of wine, maybe a little Barry White, and a few solar flares pointed at a certain other celestial object who went by the name of Venus. Mercury, too, was a possibility if Venus turned out to be a bitch.
“God dammit,” Bobbie said. She turned on her heel, a miniscule figure dressed entirely in black, and headed back down the mountain later remembering about this trip that her device didn’t work, and that afternoon storms were coming.