The weeks take wing and flutter
like coveys of quail to safety,
seasons spin into one another
as the dawn rides up and down,
north and south, upon the ridgeline,
never resting in the same place twice
no matter the year—this moment
unique. And these old eyes
still sharp at a distance, see more
than they used to—know the details
to look for. I am learning how
to talk with my eyes, conversations
accompanied with words:
reverberating murmurs in my chest
from a gentle land we understand.
drycrikjournal 
Beautiful, and I feel such heartfelt words.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Another great one for the book.
LikeLiked by 1 person
“Reverberating murmurs in my chest from a gentle land we understand.”
This I a an awesome, poetic line!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Katie, and thanks for taking the time to comment.
LikeLike
Your love of the land shines through
LikeLiked by 1 person