The mountains of my home are beautiful, rising up in great lumps and rolls. Unlike their cousins of the west, they do not reach for the sky in proud majesty. They remain close to the earth, humble in their way. Friendly, they protect those who live around them.
Their covering is a heavy coat of trees which they change to suit the season. In summer it is green and practical, but after awhile they seem to grow tired of this. Fall comes and they put on marvelous colors of orange, red, and yellow. Then, as if repenting of this extravagance, they wear the dullest brown they can find for winter. Even then they can not resist dressing up in beautiful white now and then. By the time spring comes around their oath to remain plain has weakened considerably, but not so much that they are willing to put on their fall finery. Instead, they begin to wear green and thus start the cycle all over again.
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