The Updraft of Awe  

On the trail from somewhere to elsewhere

along a hill-hidden valley

where silence flows down the river in a ribbon of silver,

where folks are because they were,

and will be because they are,

making life on sparsely settled hillsides.

Where seeds are planted with every step and season,

where grain keeps growing,

and cattle munch it for a hundred years.

As eagles float high on the valleys’ updraft of awe

the old apples and pines on the hillsides,

still take the advice of their parents,

to stay put, and soak up September’s slanting sun.

Why do I walk past and wish

this trail would never end?