a garden without peacocks

I’ve never lived in the mountains before. The closest I’ve ever come is in Winston-Salem, where they are two hours away and those mountains are different, more green and lush. I wish you could see these mountains, breathe their fresh flawless air into your heaving lungs, heaving lungs that these mountains created. You can’t escape them, so you start to blend in. That’s what these mountains look like too. Their sides, close to me, are full of fallen fruit, small evergreens and short light green bushes. Down below sits Granada, a city I can’t quite figure out since it’s home to people like Brits who own Brazilian tapas bars and a Irish sportsman who owns a Irish pub frequented by foregin students and Spanish alike, all there to watch the Rugby World Cup.

Despite it’s mixture of cultures and loud love of life, Granada too blends into the mountains, it’s buildings all sand or white. The mountains reign in the distance too, at their feet a mixture of brown cut fields and lush green vineyards. The sky is grey with streaks of white and the lightest blue it could be, so pale it hurts your eyes to look at it for too long. They’re all I can see, the brown mountains. How easy would it be to forget all but this?

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