There once was a tall, proud mountain who stood all alone at the edge of the plains. He was the highest thing for miles and miles, and from his stony peak he could see everything — the rivers, the forests, the little towns. But seeing everything is not the same as having company, and the truth was that the great mountain was lonely. The other hills were too far and too low to talk to, and the clouds always drifted by far below his peak.
One day a small, tired cloud came drifting along, blown off course by a storm. She was looking for somewhere to rest, and the mountain's broad stone shoulders looked wonderfully solid and still. So she settled down right on top of his peak, like a soft white hat, and sighed with relief.
"Excuse me," rumbled the mountain, who was not used to visitors. "You're sitting on my head." "Oh! I'm so sorry," said the cloud, and began to lift away. "No — wait," said the mountain quickly. "You can stay. I don't mind. In fact… I rather like it."
And so the little cloud stayed. She told the mountain about all the faraway places she had floated over — the oceans, the deserts, the great green jungles. The mountain told the cloud about the slow and patient things he had watched over the centuries — the rivers carving their valleys, the forests growing tall, the towns rising stone by stone. They were the most different friends imaginable, the heavy mountain and the floating cloud, but they never ran out of things to share.
The mountain loved his new friend, but he noticed she grew gray and heavy when she stayed too long, full of rain she could not hold. "You should let it go," he told her gently. So the little cloud let her rain fall — down the mountain's sides, into the streams, across the thirsty plains below. The grass grew green. The wells filled up. The farmers looked up in surprise and gratitude at the rain that came, it seemed, from the mountain himself.
From then on, the little cloud always came back. And she brought her friends — other clouds, drifting in to rest on the mountain's peak, gathering around him soft and white. The lonely mountain was lonely no more. He wore a crown of clouds, and they gave their rain to the land below, and the whole plain bloomed greener than it ever had.
"Even the highest, loneliest one," the mountain learned, "only needs to let a friend come and rest."
And to this day, if you see a mountain with a soft white cloud upon its peak, you'll know it is a mountain who has learned how not to be alone.