I lift my face to morning’s light, and watch the sun move from left to right. Though earth has bound me where I stand, I brighten fields across the land.

I move with no engine, yet I still can glide, Two hands are my heartbeat, they pull at my side. I whisper through waters where motors feel loud, I’m smallest in harbors, but free from the crowd. I travel in rhythm, not rush or in haste, Where effort and silence are part of the taste.

In the figurative I'm complex, messy and difficult to escape. Litterally, I'm a swamp, bog, marsh or wet land. The final clue will give it away... Giggity.

I kiss the grass with silver white, while stars still guard the fading night. Though sparkling bright for all to see, the sun soon melts my artistry.

A word for the best tales and the mountain heights