Jena Tapia

The Flight

Where the clouds roam and the winds gust there is a peak. It isn’t the highest or even all that beautiful. Just a barren peak that juts into the clouds. Often, I pass over the peak or just by it. Each time I look at the smooth rocks interspersed with jagged ones that sit on the rocky face. They never move and are always in the same place. Being a rock must be boring I think each time I pass by the peak. Stuck in the same spot for years, the same side facing the sun while the other consistently sits in darkness.