Half the wing lighted by the sun.
The goose-pimpled surface of the clouds
like little snow hills. Wide and endless expanse
of the sky. All of us less than condensation
blanketing the earth. Winds, the Rockies
and small puffs just hanging there.
What a little turbulence does. From
afar mountain ranges like jagged
grooves—prompting the thought, what
am I in relation to a mountain? Well,
the sun iss coming and the light is
seeping through. She sees what I've done
and calls for the hills. Because
the peace is contained within, not
created from without. It makes little
sense, I think, to pursue a landscape
of feelings that is spread throughout
the entire earth.
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