Saturday, February 15, 2014

XXI from the mountain top

Listening to soft rain on the tent. Late morning and crows calling. I'm so cosy and the air is fresh and grass-sweet. I can just see the single summit tree through the fog. I'm lying on my left, feeling my heart beat. This place always welcomes us home.
Three cars have crawled past. I greeted the first but didn't bother after. Just now I heard a thud. Series of thuds. The little tent, my resting body, are right by the track. Six horses were stepping past. I greeted the riders in their driz-a-bones and broad hats.
Mt Stirling

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