For you display a sweep of green grass ten months of the year, and on you, square-backed cattle graze.
For you allow the mists to roll and tumble up your sides, and you let the beautiful old barns sag beneath their mossy roofs.
For you make yourself a refuge for the orange-bellied newt and the well-contented bullfrog and in the winter you listen to the thin ice of the wren's song and in the summer, the bee swarm has suspended itself above your creek, resting on the air like one of God's thoughts.
For on you grow towers of Douglas fir and red alder with its tiny brown cones and muscular white oak and ferns of every kind and wild iris and bluebonnet and nootka rose and the white-blush bells of salal and moreover all around your feet you have accepted the early settlers' plantings of poplar which even in their gray season breathe out a balsam that is a pale sweet scent of ghostly tea-rose.
For you let me measure my worries and sorrows against your long flanks and bring me at last to the top where light breaks through the cloud, or stays hidden, but where always the view is wider and freer than below.
For you are the occasion of many years of walks with my friend and blackberry rambles with my children and bike rides with my beloved.
For when I have climbed you my veins sing and glow and you have sweated out of me many kinds of toxins.
For when I am back home once more, standing at the kitchen sink, you make that first dripping glass of water very sweet.