Each morning I take a brisk walk, trying to stay present, in real time, with each step I take. I look around and talk to the trees, the grasses, the old man on the hill. To be truthfull, the old man is the hill, sprawling carelessly across the landscape, arms outstreched. I can only see the upper portion of the old man, the rest is out of my view, but he appears comfortable and content with his position. I say " man" because he has a beard and is clearly male and "old" because, sometimes even if my walk is a bit late, he is still sound asleep, snoozing away the day in the glorious autumn sunshine.
I like it best, though, when his one eye turned towards me is open and questioning. Then, I feel accountable for my actions, as though the old man is asking: "Just what have you planned today that is good for the world?" I am more thoughtfull when he is awake.
It is a luminous world when I walk early, the grey fog in the valley rising magically, creeping up the hillsides and up, up, up into the blue sky. We live half way up the valley wall, and so, most mornings, are above the mist. Up here, the sun rises through the grey blanket and shines its light through the yellow, and red, and gold leaves on the trees and illuminates the pale grasses, mere skeletons of their summer selves. I know winter is coming, but I want it to stay this way a while longer.

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Sometimes, just at sunset,
She dances with coyotes.

?Come little sister? they call,
?Leave your dirty dishes,
Pots and pans,
The hungry cat.
Come dance with us.?

She flings off her apron
Of responsibility,
Hurries out of the house,
And across the lawn,
Pushing through the hedge
Of her limited world
And onto the darkening land.

The coyotes wait for her,
Howling and cavorting
In anticipation.

She takes one great leap of faith,
and flings herself upward,
Towards the stars.

Hand in paw, she and the coyotes
Dance high above the prairie
And around the great bowl of the night sky.

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