Bye Boston

I awoke with a formidable task.
The sun began to light the gray/blue horizon.

Before me extended rolling plains. Spring had arrived and transformed them into waves of pale amber.

In the distant they loomed.....
It seemed I had two choices: Shepard's peak, or the more dangerous crags of Santigo (also known as the Sixpence-Slayer). At her base remained a full seasons snow --- slid straight to the base like sweat from her brow. The wrinkles of her face unable to support but more than a dusting snow.

Given this view, what would it be like to look up to her summit from the snowy pedestal from which she emerged? Would the task at hand become more daunting the closer I became? Or, that much more palpable the longer I stared at her ever crevasse?

"Worry not," said the bird!
"Lest you tarry," cried the worm.
"Day by day!" shouted the squirrel.
"First you have to get there" buzzed the bee....so close to my ear that her own little wing tickled my earlobe.

And not yet knowing where or how......i set off in this general direction.