Oh, the ridge will kiss the clouds and our footsteps will whisper to the stones, each one a friend with a name I might forget but will still feel. I'll jot down a leaf with a poem and a rock named after the wind, and you'll see how the path becomes a stanza.

The ridge will sigh when the clouds pass, and I’ll whisper a poem onto a leaf—just in case the wind takes it farther. Each stone will get a name, even if I later forget why I called it “Silver‑Moon Rock” and forget it’s in my backpack. When we run, the earth will breathe a verse, and I’ll write it on the moss as we go. Ready, but maybe let’s check if the trees are feeling wistful first?