My heart is sewn into these hills;
written into the tender bark of maple
saplings and vined up the side of aging
tobacco barns like Virginia creeper.
Glimpses of sunlight cascading through the
forest canopy or glinting across the gentle
current of the creek bed silently answer my
wish for serenity and a moment’s peace from
a barrage of bad news and worse marketing
for the next “must-have” item popping up
across the tv, my phone, even the pump at
the gas station – this world is exhausting.
The calls of the whippoorwill lure me out into
the forested night to watch as lightning bugs
dance across the darkened valleys, and I allow
my mind to wander deep back into these
hollows where the last of the wild things are
tucked away shielded by stewards holding
onto fragments of our old stomping grounds.