If, on this Ides of March, I lacked faith and sought it, I might deify the two mountains that suddenly appear above the Gold Creek valley. Below all is dark, lit only by translucent ice and fresh snow—a place to plod in the gray. Above, two sun brightened peaks float in a thinning snow squall. My camera can’t capture them, which adds to their divine resume. Maybe I’ll consider them ghosts. Aki must think them to be from another plane. She growls and dances like when she wants us to move away from perceived danger. She calms when the squall thickens to vanish her enemies