Most Evenings

The road continues up the hill
paved, winding through hot trees
and ditches.
Most days I walk
to the bare top.
There is a horse ranch
and too many miles
to look upon.
Also, the sun.
Horses standing about grazing
then kicking godly into movement.
From the dust, beetles leaping
from blades of grass, in the silence
before each hoof.
They halt before reaching the fence
where a current of knowledge waits.
Not the knowledge of gain or loss.
The knowledge of this is enough.
Not what we want acceptance to be
but what it often is.
Holding up a god
merely by presence.

Too many miles to look upon
and suddenly too alone.
Back down the hill, back to the home.
Back, back.