and two
hundred
years.
the roads are narrow,
pushing
clouds of civil war dust up
as you ride by.
the fields
are wide
and endless, the rolling
hills
and grass,
a sea of green, fences
of lumber,
trees,
stone houses,
forgotten wells,
abandoned shacks.
it's bliss,
the quiet, the rustling
of leaves,
of birds
on wing.
the bulls,
horses
on the distant
hills.
shadows
in the blue sky of sun.
let's close our
eyes
on this hammock as it sways,
and not go home.
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