From  the pinnacle of the quaint hill,
where a lone tree spreads her parasol,
it would seem one could glide smoothly down,
till the far horizon, where the sea faintly glints,

the sun just floated up, a pink, perfect globe,
changing the color of layers and layers of hills
in many hues of blue, from dark to light-
in to a song of red, only hearts listen,

A bird, not moving wings, soared far above,
round and round, a song bird on the throes-
of a song; it would break in to it soon, I hoped.
*Wind quickly subdued, leaves perked their ears,

With bated breath the hills stood attendant,
the moment was fully pregnant with expectations.