Magpie madrigals awaken me
Early each morning
Glorying in the newness
Of the day
Praising the beauty
Of newly sprung Spring.

I am weary
Weary of the grind
Weary of the blare
Of unwanted television news
Of the cry of talking heads
Creating economic disaster
With their intrusive blather
Crying in the spilt beer
Of lost financial gain
Weary of television, radio, internet.

I want to run to the hills
Hope for poor signals
Hope for undelivered papers
I want to walk in a woods
Filled with promise
As jack in the pulpits
Sneak through the debris
As May apples lift up.
I want to be scolded by squirrels
Angry that I have walked into their woods
I want to sit under an oak
Simply listen to the world
And perhaps sleep
Perhaps dream.

If I close my eyes even now,
I can still yet see them.
Sittin' yonder on that cabin porch
Unchanged, unmarked by time somehow.

Rugged cabin, hand hewn logs
Sittin' on the edge of the hill.
There's Uncle Billy, plain and simple
One hand restin' on that ol' dog.

They'd end up there 'bout every day,
Tired old man and worn out dog.
Always quiet, nary a word
Except the words he had to say.

Now and again the rocker'd creak,
Eyes would fade and head would droop.
Dog would moan and chase dream rabbits
Uncle Billy'd slumber and take a peek.

Did they hunt again together in an interwoven dream?
Man and dog, both young and virile.
Uncle Billy'd sigh, old dog whimpered
Were they resting by a remembered stream.

Tired, worn cabin by the edge of the wood
Worn out man and tired old dog.
They'd leave this life, this care , this toil
To forever hunt their dreams...if they could.