There is a mountain monastery in a distant land. The stout, little building squashes into the ancient, rustic earth. It slumbers under the heavy, scratchy foliage, content under beams of daylight, which plunge through the dense surrounding fog. Almost all is silently still. Wood smoke and pine permeate the stillness, the only moving sensation flowing in this monastery on a mountain. The winter has made the world freeze, inviting the cold frost of overwhelming hopelessness, and yet still they pray. The wind does not shoulder through the crowd of barren trees, the birds do not flutter to and fro gossiping and prattling on, and the monks do not move in their routine positions upon the monastery’s icy, stone floors. The men squat, legs folded. Their eyes are closed, and scraggly wrinkles appear on rounded faces, faces old and withered from the injustice of man. Their robes smell slightly ripe, the brown scraps of clothe devoid of any color or decoration. They mumble, they hum, they chant. Dark, dangerous Columbus clouds begin to rally, the lashes of lightning slicing the sky for the boisterous booming of thunder. The sky, angered and frustrated, darkens by shades of gray, blue, and black. The clouds release tumultuous rain from their folds, piercing the ground and stone, raindrops exploding on impact. The monks maintain, even though they are outnumbered; they are the underdogs to nature. They have faith that a rainstorm makes you clean. From example, they make time to be carefree as the raindrops in their wild, elaborate dance.