Evening's Drowse

           
        I am filled with-
        shaped by
        the hills.

        They smooth my thoughts
        as each rise leads
        to another
        stretching

        as I soar
        like the sparrow
        my mind capturing image
        after image
        of what we've seen.

        Old hills...

        Black specks become goats
        a stick a shepherd on watch.

        Stones take the shape of sheep
        and sheep take the shape of stones.

        Some hills haven't a speck of green
        just crevices
        that make them look like drapery
        sculpted mounds
        modern art

        then drive down
        and discover other hills
        with dark green conifers-

        old old trees with space underneath
        their lowest oldest branches
        primeval shelter...
        
        Would I see the land the same
        if my pace were constrained to what legs can do-
        
        how far the foot can stumble.    

poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab