Mountains

Stallions gallop above us, their tails brushing the vault of the sky. And the mountains, old wise elders, stay silent, counting off the years. The trees look like stubble, swaying back and forth in the wind. Like a painter working a brush over canvas, a helicopter circles above them. And the bright rays of the sun caress us like a mother's hand. Rooks are the heralds of spring. Snow on the peaks, like sour cream. A stream, like a forest snake, runs winding between the pines. And a nightingale — a Pavarotti — keeps getting asked for an encore. The world is woven out of sounds and colors. Nature is a magic tablecloth, endlessly full. The Creator is a master jeweler. Love is the keys to the bank's safety deposit boxes.