My mountain is a mole hill
"They call it a mountain," whispered the Monkey to the Zebra. "Mountain!" cried the Zebra. "It's but a bump between the veldt's green edge and the sparkling river. A grassy bump, a shady rill, a slope that makes me sing as I gallop to the water's edge." "Perhaps, " allowed the Monkey. "But you have four legs, and it's easier for you to race along the slope than it is for me." "It's a matter of perspective, not legs, " argued the Zebra, "a mountain is only as large as your mind chooses to make it." The Zebra knelt, and the Monkey clmbed onto his back, holding tightly to his mane. "I see exaclty what you mean," the Monkey said, his view forever altered by his place atop the strong back of his friend.