On the way home, the current home I have, the road winds and climbs and falls.

Fields of cattle grazing, a little creek along the right side, a steep drop on the left.

Weave through the mountains, steep and slow going, a horse at the roadside, white with black spots.

At night the trees are black shapes that hang in my passageway.
The hills in the distance, dark outlines on the horizon.

The sun sets slowly, a soft white line of fading light, barely visible,
just enough to keep the stars from showing themselves.
They will come out soon.

When I arrive at home I walk up the hill to the studio and sit on the bench outside.

All is dark. All is quiet. The ridges hold the valley.

Cupped hands, filled with red earth.