It’s my morning commute down the Seward Street Steps. I’m brooding about my just ended struggles on the guitar with Bach when a raven call sounds from behind. There’s no raven there, only Mt. Juneau underscored by the line of remodeled miner’s cabins on 6th Street.
Standing in dusk I watch the first morning light reach the mountain’s summit and the ice fields behind it. The light delivers enough warmth to heat the peak’s supercool air, driving plumes of snow drift over our town. If it stays clear the same sun will warm my face this afternoon. Not that far removed from my pre-Christian ancestors, I still need these affirmations that the sun really will rise higher in the sky each day ‘till the solstice.