You don’t have to go to Scotland to see the lush rolling hills
I admire out my window daily on my route to work
Sloping, emerald hills cut at each other
Intersecting showered with morning dew
A thick smear of fog fills the valley
The morning sky is an artist’s palette
Mother Nature is blending her colors
They spread and mix trying to find the perfect shade to announce the day
A tinge of pink spreads like a contagion
I try to notice where the pink changes to blue
But it spreads like the hands of a clock
I am long past when the fog disappears into the vanishing pink
The picture is burned into my memories
You don’t have to go to Scotland to see the lush rolling hills
Poetry 