The Mountains Are Calling
From pine-scented forests, past boulders and streams,
To clear lakes encircled by murals and dreams
Where bright clouds emblazon a warm azure sky,
A trail through the mountains is one I must try.
When bluebells stop blooming and nighttime grows cold,
The breeze makes the aspen trees shimmer with gold.
The chirp of the pika is scarce to be heard;
The eerie elk-bugle is now the watchword.
The sounds and their season soon snuffed out by snow,
The silky white peaks wear a pink, sensual glow
At sunrise when raw arctic blasts turn serene,
Inviting to view how they’ve sculpted the scene.
As ice turns to water and lush green arrives,
The crags reappear and new wildlife thrives.
Soon streamlets will gurgle and columbines grow;
The mountains are calling and I must go.
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