When I was young and lived alone
she kept me company, silhouette
stretched along the ridge waiting
for the moon upon her breast,
long hair falling into the creek.
Some nights she stirred in her sleep.
Alive, these hills still welcome me,
draw flesh and eyes away
from the bottomlands of man.
drycrikjournal 
I love that last verse, John. Are you being inundated with rain?
janet
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Though LA was targeted last week, most of the storms are tracking well-north of us. But it’s wet nonetheless, ground gorged and leaking, standing, running down every crease and draw.
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To a man who is into the land, like you, the hills and their contours are like a lover. To a woman more like a mother. Enfolding, comforting and eternal.
Love the poem, those hills speak to you.
Seems we are coming out of the wet, though the San Joaquin and Sacramento both of them are still flooding. This morning the TV shows water levels falling but some of the tributaries haven’t reached population centers. A levy break in Modesto is being mended so maybe it will hold when the water gets there.
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To a man, also like a mother, they can embrace and protect, as well as a place to lose one’s self, solace.
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To look beyond the bracken of the human jungle and see such grace . . . Amazing!
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I have to look away! Dwelling in the lowlands I become like their inhabitants.
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Lovely
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Levees, canals, flood control of all kinds to protect man’s possessions. How soon we forgot what made the valley fertile and brought man here in the first place. How many have seen or even aware of California elk and antelope.
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