Narrow road scars high mountains.Green-yellow grass bends with the wind. We'll never know what lies tucked into the folds of trees.
We cut through the passes that hold themselves strong and wind down sharp into blind ravines, then back up, climbing slow like pilgrims on the steep angles of a foreign land.
Wood and wire fence stakes the rounded edge of some forgotten boundary. Gray, splintering posts have stood so long they can only stand still. We crest another pass and sink a little seeing the mountains to come.
The hardest part of anything is just before the end. All the hours and all the miles multiply their fatigue, but I know the sun will dim in the salt mist of ocean spray.
Narrow road scars high mountains. Green-yellow grass bends with the wind.