The Hills

A goat trots on a grassy hill

Her hooves patting the ground

The grass folding under

It doesn't make a sound.

The sky fills with glowy stars

That shimmer in the dark blue night

The silhouette of a hare twitches in the deep shadow

The trees brush against its soft fur

Before it hops out of the dark.

Leaves dancing in the breeze

Weaving patterns of wonder,

The song of the wind whistles

Blowing soft melodies into the air.

The slight chirping of birds dies down

As they settle in for the night.

Baby birds grow tired,

They sleep without fright

The hills are left quiet,

Not a sound can be heard,

Not even a mouse.