How many hills quietly sit or stand
in fog maybe or saturated in rainfall?
How many of those green hills–
So green that you forget that money use to rule you–
How many of those mounds of grass barely grazed,
barely walked through or driven upon,
How many of those are waiting for me?
Next to a brown road
(no need to pave what doesn't have secrets)
that winds arounds like a belt or miniskirt
no words, just road.
How many of those do you think I can run
roll down or walk in a progression
until I reach the Horizon?
the source for all the patience the hills have carried
all these years
How many hills on an unknown Scottish countryside
marked by the tiniest of the sun to hit the top of one–
How many are waiting for my back or bum to rest or
stand against the wind looking forward (only forward)
How many of those moments are waiting for me
How many of those are calling me
to just get up and go.
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This is my reality as I see it in stanzas as I study Psychology, English, and French in Scotland.