" THE HILL HAS SOMETHING TO SAY
but isn’t talking. Instead the valley groans
as the wind, amphoric, hoots its one bad note.
Halfway up, we stop to peek through smudged pine:
this is Europe and its green terraces.
What’s left to climb’s inside us,
: it’s not all in the books (but maps don’t lie).
(For all we know the wind’s inside us, pacing
our lungs.) "

― Rita Dove , Collected Poems: 1974-2004