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.