In mists  the bird hovers
suppose it drops down dead?
who will mourn?
somewhere in mists are tears, blood
and soaring skies can actually mourn.
We will not.

In mists the hills look perfect.
Position yourself, see such perfection.
In mists winter and autumn calls
echo the whatever. Stones, pebbles
breathe life into these hills on which
I have been bred, fed.

Take a walk across dreams
then water in streams will ripple
birds laugh.