Hills
hills across the river,
towering towards the midday sun,
with hidden valleys,
full of grass,
and wild cattle,
left behind last year,
hills across the river,
wild and free,
an enemy to pickup or jeep,
horse country,
horses grunting as they climb your slopes,
sacred hills,
home of my grandfathers,
a place,
I miss,
yet these hills live in my soul,
close the eyes,
and listen to the wind,
and the birds,
and the insects,
my soul towering towards the midday sun.
Douglas Polk
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