I shook hands with this liquid,
not my tears.
Sitting quietly like a rabbit,
absorbing the world through my ears.
People here speak in mountain tongue,
slow but chattery.
Like the splash of the river,
how the McDonald runs.
Strength in the granite stone,
unyielding and refusing to wear.
Pound into soil,
but still will not tear.
Valley moving into an afternoon haze.
Clouds kiss the mountains,
and this valley caresses the range.
© Deon Heemskerk 18-1-2013