Growing up on the Texas Gulf Coast, I did not see a real mountain until I was thirteen years old and the family went on a vacation that included a trek over the continental divide in Colorado. Before that, I and my siblings and friends had to make do with mountains in the sky. The peaks of water vapor that towered and changed before our very eyes were the mountains we played in. Our imaginations were the only things we needed to fly to the tops and cruise the canyons between.
We were the aviators of mind and masters of flights of fancy. Magical kingdoms and dragons were there in our sky to be glimpsed on the snow-white mountains of mist. To this day I navigate the clouds and let my imagination run free.
The drought has been harsh. Rain came the other day. Sweet blessed rain. In the evening light I saw a snow-capped mountain towering in the distance as I gazed out my front door. This mountain reminded me of the child I still am.