The hillside shelves a weathered man
Gazing out onto the land.
Horizons are his only walls.
He hears as Evening calls.

It speaks to him of days to come.
Of days of races ran and won.
Of effort spent with focused heart,
And how it plays its part

In always looking down to see
The ground that holds him up, and be
The lighest landborne man he can.
There's help in every hand.

Upon the hillside stands a man,
Determined that he will and can
Change it back to heart from stone.
The poet stands. Alone.