the trees swaying towards the direction
locals say "yankees" descend from.
Like yankees, I too hail from the North.
Where trees can do a similar dance
to its sisters in the South.

They are not black-eyed Susans,
but these wildflowers are just fine.
And here, I have an abundance of time to observe the wildflowers and find them greater than such
as a day down here is three up there.
Yet even with a generous sun,
a myopic perception seems to allow me to do otherwise.

How come I find myself displeased to hear that the tune of the oriole has been replaced by a red bird?
Or that I am fatigued from running over endless hilltops instead of straight into the horizon?
This overwhelming amount of green is immaterial to the prodigious beds of sunflower yellow I once explored in.
Perhaps I need to do something about this myopia.

Higher elevations do make it harder to breathe
for I am a creature accustomed to salt air filling its lungs.
But just before my lungs give out
and my breathe gone with the breeze of the trees,
I am reassured by my kind company of the mountains
that I am right where I need to be.