Mountains - in response to a friends thoughts

The rumble of burning engines, a distant sound;
gentle moist drizzle, trickling down my face;
silent monoliths invite my uncaring feet;
pure and gentle mistrals greet my countenance;
blades of grass, millions forming a gentle sheet;
feathery brush, berries still green.
Bottlebrush coyly gazing at its own reflection,
swaying in abandon at its own direction;
lavender and peach canopied trees;
mooing cows, crowing roosters, cackling geese;
all carried by the gentle breeze.
The words are there, not cast asunder;
I lack the time, not literary thunder.
The rumble of burning engines, a distant sound,
paradise lost, paradise found.