They were not the mountains of open west, high deserts, high peaks, dry air in scent of juniper and sage.
The mountains were not new—if ever ones could be.
The mountains were old, ancient, once great plateau worn of water and wind into ridges of spines that fell away and on whose sides soul of the earth shone through.
Spring air was cool and mists of dew blanketed the hollows and valley floors. Humid of the air held a comfort and beauty in spring that became burden in the summer heat.
Still, it was spring then, lovely, and she did not worry on the heat to come.
She was happy, content, to listen to the morning birds in song and to stare on the mountainsides of soul as sun erased the mist-cloud veil.
On open porch, she stood barefooted. She walked, small changes of her vantage, and felt the grain of wood on her open souls.
Sun’s rising, cresting morning ridge, she felt it’s touch and shine through the mountaintop cool, touched and affected, warmth of nipples under loose of morning’s cover—rising with the sun.
Sense and sight of hillside’s showing—she felt the soul of the hills. She felt the soul of the land—ancient, eternal, and enduring, yet ever renewing, rising anew—like she—in revelations of the dawn.
In touch of the sun—warmth of the light, cool of a wind—erase of the mist-cloud cover, she and soul showed through.