The rough grass blades sometimes gave her cuts, and little droplets of blood oozed out
like dewdrops on fallen leaves,
She revisited those scars when she missed the hills...
The hills had the language of silence and conversed with her in their own secret language,
the rough edges, the uneven paths, the uncertainty, the thrill,
Her heart thumped a decibel higher, the hairs on the back of her neck sang a little louder,
the hills were her calling and they always called her to wander...