Fresh snow falls in sheets, blanketing the shoulders of the nearby mountains. Pine groves punch through the powdery surface and color the slopes with their greens and browns. Only the village lights below are alive and dancing. Everyone’s tucked in; the world is still asleep.
The coffee is bold and brings me to life. I lean my face against the window, fogging the pane with an audible huff. The cold is biting and bares its teeth. I welcome its shiver as it seeps from the glass.
The grandeur of the mountains was my magnet to the west. I stare at the ridgelines beyond the town, dipping and bulging against virgin sky. The mountains cup the valley like hands around water and I want to bring it all to my lips to sip. I left New York for this view—a decision I sometimes question. The City made sense to me for all those years, but today, I doubt nothing. These mountains tug at something primal. They invite a risk I need to express.
10,000 feet tightens the lungs, but clean mountain air expands my vigor. I want to run here, ride here, and feel the burn of pressure building in my chest. Muscles throbbing with lactic acid. Pulses pounding like a speeding kick drum.
The mountains have a way of slowing time’s pace. Schedules and errands fall victim to the present. Experiences become the well of grand importance, and right now, with this coffee in hand, I need nothing more than this perfect view. The early hours belong to these mountains, and they remind me of why I call Colorado my home.
Stirring Point 
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