It's quiet.
I think things.
I see what I know to be real,
Gray on white sliding on blue over green,
Standing at the bottom of a depth of wind,
Casting a shadow on a path among trees,
I hear what I know to be true,
The tender violence of distant thunder,
The rush of sky in the crowns like the sound of the sea,
The earth sound,
The endless planetary exhale,
No trading this world for another,
Finding my raison d'etre in work,
Doing what only I can do for myself,
Omitting all else
In this era of one afternoon.
