The path was laid upon the tufted plateau as if it were dragon’s scales. Each stone had that look, as if it had come from the back of a rock dragon. Earnest shuddered, it was rumoured that they lived in these parts. The elders said that the snowy mountain peaks were their place of aeons slumber. He knelt upon one, his fingers touching the cold and coarse surface. Just stones, he thought, not dragon’s scales. Pull yourself together, all that is simply tales from foolish old men.
Amid the chorus of the trees that sing notes of brightest green, is a pebbled mountain path.
The mountain path giggles to the soles in the movement of its pebbles, as they flow to new places of rest.
Upon the plateau our path as a gentle sound wave, one whom sings in slow-roll baritone.
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