This is a small place I go
by often, old as the hills. Older than the earth itself, its components. It
sits high up near the High Hadley Fields, but set apart by a low valley of
grown crops. Of coyote and wild turkey and swelling rows of corn.
Of steep ravines that hold down beneath them the rolling waters, which traverse and nourish the land.
This small place is high, and holds one old Maple, grown craggy and elegant and wind worn with age.
It sits at a corner you must pass by, along a small ribbon of winding road, following the stream and small falls.
And so, from this place, you can be still and quiet and find your power and see far.
Far to the range, far back again to other towns and other lands. And still farther, to other times. To your own farther reaches, if you will.
It is a small place that looks momentary, its manifest unremarkable to all except those who pause and to those who wait.
Of steep ravines that hold down beneath them the rolling waters, which traverse and nourish the land.
This small place is high, and holds one old Maple, grown craggy and elegant and wind worn with age.
It sits at a corner you must pass by, along a small ribbon of winding road, following the stream and small falls.
And so, from this place, you can be still and quiet and find your power and see far.
Far to the range, far back again to other towns and other lands. And still farther, to other times. To your own farther reaches, if you will.
It is a small place that looks momentary, its manifest unremarkable to all except those who pause and to those who wait.
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