oh, the cool mist, that hides the hills
as the morning sun, seems to create a
rainbow of colors, for half awaken eyes

in the distant, I hear the voices of those
who tend their gardens, the valley below
in hopes of a fruitfull crop

I am but an observer, to this land
a momentary guest, trying not to intrude
but in such amazment, I am of them

they seem to enjoy what seems like toil to me
yet, their chatter and songs, are full of joy
perhaps they are aware how blessed they are
to be in a place of gods making