I was told that Koreans have a phrase to describe that lingering cold which settles in the bones and frustrates our desire for the long-absent warmth of the sun: The late jealousy of the cold.
The jagged winds in these high altitudes grind the bones during the jealous weeks of Spring when all the colors hide for fear of a late and enduring frost. Brown and grey mountainsides riddled with brown and grey un-leaved trees, like the three days growth of my thin beard, line every mile of the road. The beauty of these mountainsides just before the resurrection takes hold of me in a subtle, but enduring way. They are not possessed of that beauty for all to see, the blooming explosion of life adorned with the costume of a Saturday evening out on the town; they are possessed of the beauty of promise and hope and the much-deserved reward after a long Winter’s work.
Every town and city seems surrounded by these mountains, as if they move with us in order to keep our sight contained within a certain diameter. My sight, which so often strays to the horizons and beyond, does not balk for even a moment. Continuously strained and tasked with the futile desire of precognition, my sight sighs in relief and settles to the peace and enjoyment of slow and gentle contemplation.