The altitude of a mountain is a river flowing straight down from the peak,
Snow covers the slope, at a 45¡ angle,
And a falling rock bisects the angle and makes a path on the ground,
You can not hear a sound.
Valleys are asymptotes on the grid of the Earth,
Standing at a tree, with the square root of one million branches,
I survey the area,
using the distance formula, and the quadratic formula, and transversals, and theorems;
The wonder of the area is greater than all of the sums.
Wind blows now and then,
It rustles the papers with all the fractions,
Today, I calculate the measure of the hypotenuse of the majestic summit,
In the air, kites (shaped like trapezoids, rhombi, and squares) do not plummet.
By a small stream,
two little logs, near a group of pines,
are arranged to make a parallel line;
If one were to look closer, it would appear,
there would be a population of creatures – rabbits, eagles, owls, butterflies, and deer.
What I mean to say is that
there is a perfect rate of change of seasons, here,
The sun shines brightly, everywhere,
Flowers bloom in perpendicular lines, near the median of the scene,
Everything functions as it should,
It is a great formula for a beautiful day.
Suddenly, there is a cacophonous occurrence,
When the flowers are blooming,
With the animals zooming,
and a storm is looming, with thunder booming –
there is no mode of transportation back, or of oncoming confusion –
And then - the clouds float silently back again.