The Hill: Burgh, the first

Trucks traverse the span

Their passage echoes up the gorge

Leave their momentary mark

Like breath on a cold window

The home is gone

Lives resumed in other places

Still the diesel reverb

Sounds off of the water

Follows the old path

To a cold window with prints

From the last time any were there to hear

Only a mirage

Though the forest patiently waits

Loneliness only sounds for those who listen

In the high summer life still thrives here

As it ever has through age uncounted

The creek’s roar across nearby shoals of glacial rock

Echo up through the gorge to the heights where I stand

Agrasp of that lone scrub pine pointing the way down

Across the long rocky cliff below

The valley falls away at my feet

For but a few steps back I am immersed

In the long folds of the Woods protection

It is safe here amid the trees and ferns

Squirrels still ping-pong the walnuts down the long trunks

To the dark, earthy loam of the floor

It’s piquant bouquet beckons one to enter deeper 

Into the cool, dark and ancient realm

Lands where my brothers, the Miami and Wyandot

Once hunted. And grew. Their apples still flourish here

In the fall. Only weeks away now…..

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