You stand on a ridge looking east above the clouds. A sign, marking something about where you are, is there. But what does a sign know about where you are?
Your skis lay at your feet. The clouds too. Icy volcanos, powerhouses for hundreds of thousands of years, lay dormant in the distance. You think how you, too, have become dormant. A wind blows across the ridge, intrudes on your thoughts. Your skis rustle on the ice next to you. You look out, toward Mt Jefferson, think how easy it was to shift into something else. The molten rock that once ran so hot beneath your feet, now cooled. Cooled, but not defunct. You step into your skis, point them downhill into the clouds. A dormant dream erupts once more.