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.