The clang of bells is all the din allowed
high within this remote mountain meadow.
Perhaps, a shepherd’s shout or a dog’s bark,
but only when a sheep has strayed too far.

So silent you smell flowers on the wind —
as senses seek some sign of life’s embrace.
Moreso, if you shut your eyes to the green
whose verdant rug stretches to azure skies.

Buttercups feather hillsides in yellow,
bare granite shoulders the grassy valley,
and cumulus clouds drift, low and lazy,
breaking up the cartel of blue and green.