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Call it escape if you like,
I call it focus,
On the storm passing south,
Panthers of cloud
Leaping up from blue hills,
Swallows on wires like notes,
Redwings rustling in flocks
Over mowed fields,
The smell of wet hay
In pooled August heat
I turn and ride with the wind
Through veins of cooler air
Pouring into the valley,
I call it calm,
As a curtain of rain not yet here
Scrubs smoke from that distance,
I focus on the close-at-hand, and I
Call it my own if i like.
