Their lumbering shadows command a solidified reality, slowly yawning through eons of unchanging evolutions. From a distance, they seem like thickened clouds, my guardian points of reality for as long as I can remember. Up close, they present a united front of stone and lichen, pine and aspen, snow and shadow.

Yet the slopes run with scars from gold and coal. Do they understand what has been stolen from them? Is it merely the annoyance of a mosquito gorging on their metal blood, or does the theft bore deeper into their souls?