There are photographs…They are black and white. They are what lead me to what is wrong…What is right!
I ache, like the fallen tree before me.
These farming fields so…solemn, soulful and, slightly…alone.
Peace is here.
It is in the catching of our breath.
Flying on gusts for a thousand miles.
I could find the unity…
If, the terrain, and I, were all that is left.
It has been windy here.
Seems…for a whole life.
Perhaps, that is what feeds a New England appetite.