Of Watchful Eyes

When I look across at Southwestern hillsThe sky is drawn- A grey line against white;A seam to divide and conquer;Furtive, are the calls of woodland birds That signal premature erasure of light;Here the winding woodland path Descends through dense and deepening foliageOf covert growth In near darknessThe grass here still wet;A heavy earthinessCloaks the airContinue reading “Of Watchful Eyes”