What?

What is it
That tells me I’m alive?
I think it the sky
Its grey-blue hues
And whispering cries.
Or is it
The ocean,
Never settling down
But always on fire
With white horse crests?
Or is it the sun
Peering behind mountain
Gaps,
Proclaiming all is fresh?
Or is it dew ridden
Tall grass
Which trails bare feet?

Or is it, perhaps, you?

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