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The Hide
The wind is fresh and cold.
Flat green reeds below.
Sky grey, with shadows of birds
that cry, and bend in curls.
Through the lens I see
the deep bend and chew.
Red and muscular.
Far away.
I watch it breathe,
and move its head to smell the new day.
Green bark behind.
I bite a sandwich, thin ham,
and see the discarded grey image
of my dead wife.
I think, and pray,
to the life above,
and put my eye back to the scope,
that shows the world,
in which I live,
and love,
and work,
and play.
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