This old mountain is alive, aware and alert and wearing her most sensual navy blue dress tonight. Crickets and frogs are humming; rain is falling softly, soundlessly. I know that there is a small group of reddish brown does that are sleeping together one hundred feet below me. There are gray doves sleeping in scruffy pine trees and my favorite old hoot owl is resting upon a branch somewhere along the Oaky ridge above me as I write this. There is too much life out there to fall asleep tonight. I feel it rising up inside of me, sliding, running, coursing through me. Summer is whispering how tired she is and I am sitting with her tonight, comforting her, telling her my secrets as she nods off now and again. A three wick candle burns on a bed of black rocks and creamy sea shells in my cauldron and a black cat sits beneath my desk lamp watching my fingers with primitive feline fascination. I am thinking of how blessed I feel right now to be a silver haired crone witch suffering the wonders of insomnia.