Somewhere, far off into the horizion...

A valley rests between the mountain ridge,

Untouched from time.

Streams,

Like liquid silver run gently as day melts snow.

Here an old song fills the air...

One of babbling brooks,

Of eastern-western winds,

Of ageless flora humming so gracefully.

In the midst of this garden,

Leaves cradle morning dew as a low set finds refuge in the shadows of growth.

Warming light sparkles reflectively on each and every beadlett - the sun kissing all life.

Plump,

Succulent,

Ripe,

The wild berry awaits - for a tongue, a mouth, an appetite.