strumming the guitar, singing a low sad
song of times gone by
Climbing a steep hill that turns from
scrub oak desert to grassy cotton woods
with bear scat in between
Riding the bike under bright stars
feeling my body on each hill
and turn
Hanging the whites out under a full moon
in rough night breeze with
crickets keeping the time
Paying homage each morning
to what is sacred
sitting in gratitude still peace
in the gentle soft thrum
of equanimous
love
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