The sun on the hills, lighting the golden leaves and green pines,
The golden leave rustling in the air as I drive by.
My window down, the soft breeze playing with my hair,
Slightly cold but nice this fine autumn morning.
The golden leaves and green pines rush by the window on both sides,
Like golden fire in spring green branches, the leaves and needles playing.
The car rushes around the turns like a bobsled down a shoot,
Or like a snake, weaving and winding, as I speed up into the mountians.
The breeze from the window becomes too much, the pressure in my ears too stong,
So I roll it up, locking myself in the car, separated from the nature rushing by.
But the sights are still so amazing, the colours, the beauty, the leaves, the needles,
Small lakes and rushing streams, making their way downward as I go up.
Up and up I got, further in and further up, leaving civilization and noise and man made things behind,
Each curve further from the concerns of life and and worries of every day.
The golden fire recedes, giving way to more evergreens, more grass, more flowers,
Autumn being marked not by golden leaves but by dry tan grass.
The mountains are visible ahead, great sleeping giants, waiting for release,
To rise up and walk the world once more, resounding echoes of their footsteps.
But for now they sleep, snow and glaciers in sharp relief against the creation granite,
Rock so old, so massive, so permanent, in a way the human world could never be.