An evening walk produced the following poem and pictures taken with my iPhone.
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The bright blue gray of dusk masks the trees, leaves, and grasses.
But the red clay beneath my feet keeps me walking tall and breathing steady.
Through the silvery edges of age lining the tree stumps,
an echo of triumph and glory resounds in my chest.
Oh, light of old, a singer's thread, comes nigh and twix my tongue.
A still and quiet wakening is naught but mine to hold.
And when the solemn, silent gust of freedom should knock me down...
I rise again. Nay, I fly again, high, on this abundant coast.
