Here is the trail; right over the hill
Runs that my soul sang out along;
You can see my secret creek in the ravine still,
with my makeshift bridges choked in winter’s grip.
There is the castle of wood and steel, the rust red gate
with the breaths of cattle frosted;
The fence frigid in sparkles of biting ice
the trail ravaged in steps well trotted.
There are the tints of soil, watered down by sunlight
pale from thirsting for desert rain;
Can you see where eyes cried raw and loud?
at the bottom of the gravel ravine.
Here is the radio tower, breaching the clouds
the beacons my legs charged for;
A morning battle ere breakfast, before turning back
to swallow steam and oatmeal, warming my core.
A hare stills a heartbeat, quivering a gaze away
shy in silence sacred outside time forlorn;
I press the image back to bed, close to memory
dreaming of tomorrow’s morn.