Her Perfect Mountain

A lady I knew travelled the world looking for the perfect mountain, the most pleasing shape that would attract her uplifted eyes. She was an atheist, perhaps in her own way she was looking for God. Many mountains came close to perfection, but none were impeccable enough for her. Sitting on rocking chairs on a cabin porch in West Virgina, she confided all this to me. It was a fine day, snowy cumulus clouds, rose like mountain ranges in a backdrop of deep cerulean, blue. One tall cloud was particularly outstanding. As she looked up, she gasped, in a low voice exclaimed, "God." Then and there, her spirit found its perfect mountain.