You know sometimes when you crest the ridge line, with its poor soil and rocky outcroppings. You can feel the sun is hot on your skin but the breeze at that altitude is chilly through your shirt sleeves. You contemplate your layers at that moment.
As your focus shifts from
awareness of the arduous demands of the climb, your elevated heart rate
and breathing rate, to the vast horizon spread before you now, like a
king at the head of the table of your visible feast, you notice the soft
vacuum sound of the wind through the tree limbs. You smell the warm dry
sent of the shrubs. You hear a few birds or maybe the random scolding
It is quiet, but not quiet. Solitary, yet busy.