Distant, mist-wreathed hills
of sugar pine and ponderosa,
a girl is walking there.
Long, cool stride under low skies
hinting rain,
electric taste of grey.
On those silent hills I am filled with sound
as I watch her,
like an ocean or
television snow.
She stoops to lift a
stone or berry or seed
and turns eyes toward me.
My own eyes turn inward
and she disappears.