I see them, distant, in the space between buildings, brown and rounded and without snow. They are much like islands, risen high above this glinting sea. They do not turn pink at sunset; the sun, rather, is absorbed by their dense soils, like a dwindling fire, or the dust of embers. At some angles their faces shine, and I think at first of some secret snowfall, but it’s granite, and the snow will not cover it for many months now. The mountains are a place of stillness. Even as I am far from them, deep in the city of the valley, among the cars and the noises and the slippage of time, I look up and see the mountains, and I know where I am again.