The mountains welcomed me, “You’re back!” and promised me they’d have my back, should some Great water way — or two — recede, retreat, or otherwise act as cowards for too, too long.
Oh, harim, how they cried to me, spoke truth to me, “Here’s Jenny, an ally to thee.” At once the Sun shone once again, as I embraced my Westward friend.
Her shores were rocky, her waters cold. But I, at midpoint, felt less old — and trampled — then. And my ears acquiesced.
For t-w-e-n-t-y years before, life’s fog obscured Jenny’s lore. She sang it then, she sang it now: “Courageous woman, to the path you’ve chosen, the mountains bow.”