A rim of banked clouds fringe the horizon
Where the sun lowers itself into the west
I look out across lichened rocks and a curtain of trees
A river of farms rolls through the valley
Before hills that belly up in the distance
Becoming not quite mountains brooding darkly, distantly
There are no people here
No shouts or interruptions
Just myself and my own turbulence
Which settles into anxious thoughts
That I try to rationalize and quell as best I can
I breathe in deeply and exhale
Over and over
Until tranquility becomes my steady state
Interrupted only by birdcalls
And the rustle of the wind in the leaves
David Trudel © 2013
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