The mountain welcomes shore and peak;
makes room for tree and brush;
shelters cave and cranny;
bare and desolate;
abundant and fertile.
Clouds above and sun.
All are welcome.
Rain on me and make my plains green.
Shine on me and make my flowers grow.
Stand, just stand. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do.
What is the selfness of a mountain? Of a rock?
