by revbillcook

Early evening shadows

fill the lower valley like dark water

trees sway in its slow moving currents

birds drift like fish.


From a gate at the edge of the path

that leads down into the valley

a man studies the lighted windows of farmhouses

gold flecks against the blue-green rise of far hills.


A jet passes high overhead,

thin vapor trail shimmering in moonlight.

I am alone- he thinks – truly alone.

Solitude is my home.


Three hawklings rise above his head

fly off calling to each other.

He returns to his hermitage

and writes in his journal: happiness.