Charles Jensen | Writer

The mountain slips into its wig of clouds and steps into the moon’s blue spotlight. She knows the words to this song, the static of the ocean fuzzing softly against her lips. She wears the glittery gown of night. The whales roll over in their water beds, clap softly their fins against the water. Their calves want to grow up to be this beautiful, to sing this song, the feel wig shimmer with rain and sweat and city lights. The song goes on until there are no more words to say. The mountain, triumphant, bows until the wig slips from her head like fog.