Thunder in the distance

crashes me awake.

Rain is falling quickly now,

on the tin roof above

the Shenendoah mountain shack

where I lay sleeping. There

is a stampede of wild buffalo

on my ceiling, stomping rhythmically

to a beat, a beat weighing down

on my newly awakened heart, under

the silk sad moon that answers

all the precotious questions

that only hermits dare to ponder.

Thunder and lightning require time

to arrive, and the buffalo wait

for the rain, sometimes moments,

others years, just to dance in

unison with the small insect sounds

that surround these lonely mountains.

It has been said, that to live dangerously

is to live with honor, but there is also valor

in solitude, and empty souls

are much easier to fill.