here again.

These are the hills that I know

Rising and falling

In front and surround and mass.

Green into blue – and then into purple

And a stream through a shingled white cast.

These are the hills that I know

Of caked brown footsteps by rainshine

Down-paths and up-paths in fog

Where the thunder of crickets match the thunder of water

Not seen – just felt – in fall.

These are the hills that I know

Mountains and forests

That shrug into white-feathered sky.

Highland and lowland and rushes of green land

Bowing to green-whiskered I

These are the hills that I know

White browed memories of autumn

Tooth and warmth in jagged lines of mist.

First born to snow and last born to winter

Sleepy low lines of purple to kiss.

These are the hills that I know

A touch of smoky steaming

Brushing by eyelashes dim

Muffled and soaked in mudpaper cloaked

A little path with a wood-peckered rim.

These are the hills that I know

And a little window calling

Into drowning foraging sky

And the first bird that wakes – and the last bird that calls

And the sun that blows the peep by.

These are the hills that I know

A faraway yearning

Growing smaller as they fade beneath the sky

A wheel in a storm – and some hush-hushed forms

Of music – and fried-egg goodbyes.