I imagine Hunter would have spread his arms wide.

Take me further and nowhere
outward and vanished.

For I have seen the most golden a person can be.

Road passing ocean.

I live, I live.

In the vestige of wind that carries me.

Tell me again,
why trees grow towards light.

Why we trace each others skin,
as if heaven sent.

And however
dreadful; unpromising

tell me why poetry is still seeking.

(  C . C )