Walk among these hills [#34 Kelly Hart]

Revised 6.Febrary.2014:

Walk among these hills

         for Kelly

Clouds shake their heads. Below, dandruff covered hills beckon, beg your footprints, the sound of your breath. Lean closer. They slumber all alone. It's been so long since bluebirds left. "Bring your camera," they whisper in their sleep, "find the one-thousand shades of white that seek to define us."

Snap a photo of a grey fence post, a wayward tree, a defiant stem of grass that pokes a finger of wind-blown beige towards the clouds that seek to bury it. Note the melt where a feeble sun has touched them. "Open your lungs and cry-out your pain. We can take it, absorb it and leave no echo."

Listen for muffled crow-cry, the passing of a magpie's wing, its white and black beating below the blue and grey. Note how clouds scud across these hills, rear like a stallion before mountains, squeeze in between. And there ...dandruff too. Hold it in your hand, ball it up and throw it as far as you can. No one will notice. Then note the freedom of an unnoticed act, the empowering surge of joy within you. Taste its cold pure melt on the tongue; feel its tears cleanse your face.

In the hills your footprints mock the passing of yet another day. Your mind records it all before it's erased.

© Kåre Enga [168.249] November 25, 2011.

Printed version, December 2014:

         for Kelly

Clouds shake their heads. Below, dandruff covered hills beckon, lean closer. They beg your footprints, the sound of your breath. They slumber all alone. It's been so long since bluebirds left. Bring your camera, they whisper in their sleep, find the one-thousand shades of white that seek to define us, the grey fence post or the wayward tree, the defiant stem of grass that pokes a finger of wind-blown beige towards the clouds that seek to bury them. Note the melt where a feeble sun has touched it. Open your lungs and cry-out your pain. We can take it, absorb it and leave no echo. Listen for muffled crow-cry, the passing of a magpie's wing, white and black beating below the blue and grey. Note how the clouds scud across these hills, rear like a stallion before the mountains, squeeze in between. And there ...dandruff too. Hold it in your hand, ball it up and throw it as far as you can. No one will notice. Then note the freedom of an unnoticed act, the empowering surge of joy within you. Taste its cold pure melt on the tongue; feel its tears cleanse your face. In the hills your footprints mock the passing of another day. Your mind records it before all's erased.

© Kåre Enga [168.249] #34 November 25, 2011.

Note to self, earlier version: Clouds shake their heads. Below, dandruff covered hills beckon, lean closer. They beg your footprints, the sound of your breath. They slumber all alone. It's been so long since bluebirds left. Bring your camera, they whisper in their sleep, find the one-thousand shades of white that seek to define us, the fence post or the wayward tree, the defiant stem that pokes a finger of wind-blown brown (a bleached-out beige) towards the clouds that seek to bury them. Note the melt where a feeble sun touches it. Open your lungs and cry-out your pain. We can take it, absorb it, leave no echo for you to respond to. Listen for muffled crow-cry, the passing of a magpie's wing (the white and black beating below the blue and grey). Note how the clouds scud across these hills, rear like a stallion before the mountains, squeeze in between. And there ...dandruff too. Hold it in your hand, ball it up and throw it as far as you can. No one will notice. Then note the freedom of an unnoticed act, the empowering surge of joy within you. Taste its cold pure melt on the tongue; feel its tears cleanse your face. In the hills your footprints mock the passing of another day. Your mind records it before it's all erased.