Morning mist drapes the ancient spires,
stone sentinels born of fire’s desires.
A young hiker stands where the ridges gleam,
map in hand, eyes lost in dream.
High on the tower, the timber hums,
as wind through the railing softly drums.
He faces the mountains, vast and far,
each peak a memory, each scar a star.
The paper flutters — a compass, a guide,
his heart beats steady with the morning tide.
Below, the forest breathes in green,
above, the sky burns bright and clean.
He folds his map, the silence calls,
the world below, the range enthralls.
The Glass House waits, both stern and kind,
a mountain path, a state of mind.
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FE 20-70mm f4 G
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