An Ode to Cascadia.

The clouds whispered in soft forms, they told me the secrets of rivers and leaves.
The pines grew tall, bent atop, the weight of cold air extracted their green.
The lake mirrored houses and mountains, glistening respite, for a weary mind.
The peaks, snow-covered, scarfed in clouds, proud to be singular in their jagged magnificence. 
A lowly buzz of an unknown species moving around, I hear it flitter between dust and darkness.
A slow life is trapped, fossilized in time, what minuscule existence these people must live?
The smallest of aches, and the numbest of pains, dip sweetly like a blue magpie in this Douglas Fir.
Into the evening, she flies away, crescent flight path arcing in the full harvest moon.
Cascadia emboldens you; it serenades with time. It slows down the senses and manifests your mind.
You'd be forgiven for thinking you're at the edge of the world, slowing decaying into the Sound.
And where did the wind go when it stops breathing? It rested in Cascadia before upping and leaving.