Upwards and burning,
Bursting from the emerald fields
The green top overtakes the red
As a wave of yellow cascades down the side
They whoop and holler as they chase one another,
Crashing through vineyards
And slipping along brick walls
Nestled in their midst.
Bounding across the red clay,
Pivoting the earth.
As they spiral upwards,
The clouds cool their heads,
Fading into a mild blue
As their branches gnarl the sky.

The mountain is never silent.
It's wild and alive
With the full cry of a sycamore
And the flair of the oak leaves' dance.

Perhaps a wind will tap you on the shoulder as you walk
And lift your chin to the east.
Perhaps the trill of a cardinal
Will knock on your door
And pull you out of your home.
Perhaps the concrete path will turn to dirt
And you will become one with the trees.
Perhaps, someday, you will be alive again
And you will know the mountain.