The Mountain Girl
When I smell the trees here, I think of you. Of how you claimed the cold air and warm sun as your own. When I climb these slopes, I think of you. Of how you giggled as you ran them, up and down. The horses know your name, so I whisper it to them on my way back home.
Little as you were, you spoke to the sky and the clouds. While we were busy just passing by, you made your mark in this enormity. These aren’t your mountains of old, where you played freely. But mountains speak amongst themselves of ancient things, of wise things, of you.
And you, you try to obscure the scent of the valleys that lives in your bones. To disperse into the smoke filled cities that I unfortunately have long called home. But you couldn’t fool my jaded soul. The moment I saw you, I knew the birdsong swirling in your eyes. I knew how accustomed they were to nightskies brimming with stars and trees touching the skies. Firelight dances in you and the music of the earth pulsates in your body.
Many travellers will come to you, to see this mountain girl.