The Valley Road

The valley road disappeared each evening
into weather.

Travelers spoke of a city beyond the mountains,
its towers white in the distance,
its gates unmoving as stone.

But the old shepherd only shrugged
and stirred the fire.

At night, music drifted from somewhere
across the dark hills.
A violin perhaps.
Or only wind through wires.

No one could say.

Those who hurried through the valley
often vanished into snow.

Those who stopped awhile
learned the names of trees,
the patience of bread rising,
the small comfort of lamps
appearing one by one at dusk.

Sometimes a stranger would arrive exhausted,
boots split at the seams,
certain he had failed somehow.

No one argued with him.

They simply gave him soup,
a blanket,
and a place near the fire.

By morning, the mountains remained.

The fog still covered the road.

Yet now and then, after music,
after sleep,
after the kindness of people
who asked for nothing,

someone would stand quietly,
pull on his coat,
and continue upward
into the mist.