I can see mountains from my window. They’re like a painting dusted with peaches and purples. It’s late in the day, and I can hear the wind whooshing as the clouds move swiftly by. As the sun descends, the mountain peaks hold onto the last bit of glow that it offers. I know that from here, those mountains appear to be only dust, rock, and trees, but there is a bounty of life there. From here, I can’t see the life beaming, but I know that it’s there. There are rabbits, deer, lizards, snakes, mountain lions, coyotes, bees, ants, beetles, scorpions. I know this because I live on a mountain. As the sun continues its race, the mountains have grown darker, and all I can see is the outline of its peaks and boulders against the dimming sky. The painting has become one lump of deep blue. But again, I know that there are an abundance of colors dancing there: greens, golds, silvers, browns. The sun has spotted the clouds with red-orange, and the wind continues its song — the one that sometimes wakes me up at night. That can happen when you live on a mountain. It’s always new — this painted sky, these sounding winds, the beauty of the fading sun. I’ve lived on this mountain for over a year, but it always feels new.