A lonely hill, surrounded by more;
a place to think, to recapture time
A pickup's bed, aclash with iron
a stream to ford, a trail to climb
A writer's walk, no longer quiet.
A daytime slumber by sound disturbed...
A hunters cry, another's flight;
a motion heard as much as seen
The writer's search turned outward now
Leaves shield night's shadow and yet...
Time and time, and space to breathe
on edge of vision, there to see