The hills are calling from my mind,
I have to act or else complain;
that my feet are sluggish ones,
that these days are way too plain.

I wash my face and grab my keys,
my sunglasses and my wide brimmed hat;
take along some water from the frig,
lean down to softly kiss the cat.

So I begin to climb the first of many hills,                                                    the morning's bright with rising sun;
I hear the footfalls of a runner,
he jogs on by, on his early run.

The blood's now racing in my aging veins,
propelling me to carry on;
I view the mountains with delight,
it's now my solitary song.

I reach the crest and I am labored,
with a quiet, sweaty tiredness;
but for my efforts, I'm rewarded,
by an inward, soul-filled happiness.