|Twenty-two stands high above a valley|
Wondering which town will be its own.
Each field below is like a vivid dream
Nestled by the necklace of a stream,
Though distance makes the water still as stone.
Years wait, a treasure time will someday tally.
There is an unfelt fear that makes one dally,
Winds whispering of more than can be known,
Of shadows deeper, colder than they seem.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon