They are always there, on the horizon, looming, over the horizon. Look…you can see the mountains from far away, you can see their height and presence. They loom. Mountains loom in their size their weight, their presence. There is danger and difference from the land abutting. Stories of winds and snows and rockfalls, wolves and bear and giant cats; food is scarce, terrain is harsh, wind, sun, air are all different. Move towards them, no matter your speed; they never seem to change. How did travelers feel seeing looming mountains as they approached them on foot or horseback? Ten miles a day, still able to see the smoke, if they left a fire burning, from their last stop. Could they guess at their depth - the time crossing would take? Did they know what lay beyond? Did they cross from hope or desperation? Now, everyone wants a mountain view, a window framing a pretty scene. The city sprawls out: a languid sleeper, a diffident viewer, consuming every inch. You can see the mountains from far away, you can see their height, their presence, looming, on the horizon. They never seem to change, you no longer move towards them, comfortable in your last stop.