Peaks and Valleys

I sit and stare at mountaintops.
Green pastures in the sky.
Atop the range before me,
spin windmills, twelve propellers,
catching wind from blue skies.
The cloud wisps keep my eye for too long.
They pass just like storm clouds and thunderous drops of rain.
I dream a cabin under windmills, harnessing energy and lightning bolts,
images pulled from Mount Olympus, or trapped transcendental currents, high above my head.
My home is in the valley, though.
It is up a slope from the state road.
Cars zip by down the highway, on journeys, near and far, to and from.
Dump trucks deposit gravel in the pit next door. The engines rattle the doors.
Cyclists peddle and push to town.
Children call me back inside.
I am on the porch behind the garden patch.
My eyes settle down on ponds and houses,
places underneath windmill mountaintops.
Often, though, my eyes turn back to blue skies and green ranges,
they pull me like windmills funneling fresh air for light.
Somewhere in between I hover.
I find my cottage floating in air,
between the peaks and valleys,
before me every day.