In the early morning
When not even the sun had paid this hill town a visit
I woke up to mountains
That were a soft molten blue.
Not rock solid with sharp peaks or edges
But gentle in form
and fluid in stance
Almost like calm waves formed on the surface of a benevolent sea.
The tips of snow rising above the rest like the foaming heads of the incoming tide.
While the smaller hills
Bowed low in reverence.
I traced their lines from this side of the window
Running my finger across the cold glass.
Miles away
Did I not just see
The mountains shiver at my touch?
Rippling delicately as I floated along?
