There are the mountains.

I know them. They know me.

I have climbed them. Partway.

They are more secure in themselves than the lower lands which can wash away.

They seem wise because they are old, older than I am. Older than the trees, older than the rivers they source, older than memory.

They probe the air by aspiration, they lift my vision so I can see far, they talk to me, they call me back to them.

I cannot live with them long upon the slopes. I need to be with people who live lower down.

But I am glad the mountains are there.

They can afford to wait.