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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