I know a place where the valley becomes one with a lake,
the mountains protect, standing tall in the night,
glowing under the majestic glow of the moonlight.
If you listen closely, you can hear the trees.
They exchange secrets and stories of mystical monsters, people, and things.
Ordinary things. Like how the wind touches the windmill
with the extraordinary gentleness of a lover but sends it spinning,
wishing to fly though attached to the ground—it's like falling in love.
Everything here falls in love.

Like the waves who kiss the shore when the moon is full,
but leaves the sand craving more as it drifts away,
calling out with an aching song, in remembrance to
a Loon's cry and a mosquito hum. Even the frogs
play the bass to an old forgotten tune as people disappear
behind closed doors and windows shut even though inside it is warm

Sometimes words are forgotten in the wind
and songs turn into noise which once had meaning.
But no one takes the time to listen to the music of the land.
Now everyone is craving lyrics and a rock and roll band.
Yet the trees continue talking—the wind continues to sway,
even the rain will join in the lover's parade.

In this place where the valley joins the lake,
and mountains stand guard, protecting the land,
where the waves dance and harmony dances upon the wind,
I know a place which can be visited once and not again,
because it's so easy to take granted the beauty that lies outside a window
as the insides start crumbling in.