The mountains are restless.
The aspen trees are swaying nervously in the wind. Their leaves, gold and brittle with age, are falling to the ground. A hopeless act. Suicide.
The elk are ornery. Agitated. The mature bulls, who don’t feed during the rut, are lean and aggressive. Hungry. Their symphony of wails, a pompous display of superiority and virility, fills the forest with a haunting melancholy. The clash of antlers echoes through the still, cold air.
The wildflowers have retreated. Their vibrance faded.
An unmistakable, relentless siege is coming.