There she was one Sunday night, full in her power and in a rusty red and orange hue,
Kissing her lover, the mountains, goodbye to cut her swath across the valley inverted,
Her face a perplexing medley of ecstacy and resignation and duty and sadness,
Longing to be free but looking back in fondness on the love she shared with the brutish mountains.
They brooded, those mountains, in the gathering dark,
The light of their lover, the moon, lingering slightly,
And soon, as she crested the vestiges of their peaks,
They sat contemplating how they had once been lit up,
A reflection of a reflection but enough still to give them a glow,
A glow that started outside them and worked their way in,
And even though she was gone, there was still warmth radiating out their stones for some minutes,
But soon they grew cold.