Abiel Cotton , with two mules and a wagon , worked his way across the villages late yesterday evening ! A noted blacksmith , carpenter and planter looking to patch a roof , sharpen a knife or plow a garden ! Ringing a bell from time to time , alerting the public of his presence in town !  By the light of the moon , traveling home , to the Monastery in Conyers , a good five miles ! You might catch him in the fields sometimes late at night or see him tolling the farm bell in the early morning light ! Old man Cotton will be back tonight , running his route like clockwork , you can count on it ! Busy Mister Cotton will soon reappear even though he's been dead for over fifty years !

Soft moonlight in the clear winter night,
Embracing the old trees in a creepy yet beautiful light.

Snow falling down on the path,
This night not walked by anything but a street cat.

The cold is everywhere you go ,
Cold and dark all around you.

The world is white,
It is winter outside.

Winter outside the warm houses of this lovely town,
The people drinking hot chocolate and enjoy the view.

Took a drive to no where.
Out and about.
It was a early evening in the fall.
And I was not in route.

I took a drive to clear things up.
I thought of 12 stories and one poem.
As the early evening turned into actual evening.
To wherever I may roam.

I took a drive into the night.
Down lonely roads and over a quiet river.
Under the clear Texas night sky.
Where all the stars sing their twilight silver.

Some times I look up to the sky and think,
Did I lose it all?
But when I stare at the sky for long,
And the night falls I remember why the darkness is there,
To give the stars an opportunity to shine.
And those days I know that even in the dark there can be beauty,
I just have to wait long enough for the stars to appear,
So I go on and wait for my smile to shine as bright as the stars again.

she calms herself, a momentary lulling
then strikes with rattlesnake venom
this bullwhip wind,
with the whole World shaking in her hair.

First light, and
a chill mist.
Low bird calls.
Small and quiet,
the eldest child
zips her way
out of the tent.

Gathering
wildflowers,
she sips a bit
of mountain
water.
Reaching
up, she  
offers
her flowers
into the
crook of
a plain tree,
bowing down.