Perhaps I'll find myself in a meadow, niched high up in a mountain range.
Surrounded by varieties of pine, in which provide my senses security.
I am wrapped in wool blankets.
Lifted temples,
my eyes fall to the cackle of fire; a dagger amongst the surrounding dark.
Captivation in the flames rhythmic beat.
The hum of figures emit laughter.
Far on one shoulder a river swims infinitely. If you happen stance a cross
into the thicket of trees on the opposite side, you’d find a hammock city laced in the
high branches that push into the sky.
The late hours hit, we retire toward them for refuge as the night
air comes brisk.
My eyes slide open in early hours of morning.
Chest too full
to fall back in rest.
The sound of tent door zipping wide.
Eyes wide.
Shoes slipped half on with a walk to the edge of the meadow, I go limp and fall seat.
The stars surrounding slowly fade, taken in as a sign of morning sky.
Soon I am
joined by company, patiently waiting for the suns cast show.
We venture in the woods in afternoon, pine needles crunch beneath heavy toes.
It goes on and on.
Time run honey.
