I don't need adornment;
I don't wear a ring.
I sing in the forest;  no one
need hear my sorrow sung.
I am my own audience;
I lament the dying limbs.
My discernments are sufficient.
I see the world as most others don't.
The squirrels that scamper underfoot
keep me company;  bluebirds offer
the recitative. From a distance, I
descry an old farmhouse where a
family long departed once raised
corn and three sons. Cows and
chickens milled about. An old
pick-up took the family where it
needed to go. Now it sits abandoned,
paint chipping, rust increasing with
every rain. Barber's "Adagio for Strings"
wafts through my mind;  tears slowly
slide down my cheeks. There is a
creek nearby that tries to console me.
The yellow sun meanders through
white clouds and blue sky. I cry more.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS