babaruss
01-02-2009, 09:59 PM
<center> Coming home on the bus is not my favorite</center><center>experience of the day.</center> <center>The ride is fine, lots of time to sit and unwind,</center><center>but the limping walk from the bus stop and up </center> <center>the hill to the cabin can be a strain.</center><center>My feet hurt badly, making me look like just one more
</center><center>summer visitor walking barefoot on hot sand.</center> <center>I finally give in to the pain and sit beside the</center> <center>road, leaning back against against the fern-dotted</center> <center>red earth, just resting under the canopy of fir,</center> <center>and redwood, trees that line the highway.</center> <center>Cars and trucks hurrying past stir up a breeze, </center> <center>which cool me, while I sit nursing my aching feet.</center><center>I pause from mumbling to myself about my current</center> <center>state, just long enough to look across the highway</center> <center>at the remnants of the river forest. </center> <center>The spot my pain has chosen for me is opposite a huge</center><center>redwood tree encircled by a wild grape vine, a vine as thick</center> <center>as my wrist. The vine, though gnarled and twisted,</center> <center>serenely continues its slow climb towards the sun.</center> <center>Maple, bay, and the fir beyond it are reaching down to </center> <center>the river's edge.</center> <center>A great blue heron stalks silently out of the shadows,</center><center>pauses, waits awhile patiently, then moves on, passing </center> <center>out of my sight. <center> <center>I get slowly back up and continue towards home, my</center><center>thoughts no longer focused on my aching feet.</center> <center>I had not missed the lesson provided this day, especially the</center> <center>part about gnarled old vines having the best view. </center></center></center>
</center><center>summer visitor walking barefoot on hot sand.</center> <center>I finally give in to the pain and sit beside the</center> <center>road, leaning back against against the fern-dotted</center> <center>red earth, just resting under the canopy of fir,</center> <center>and redwood, trees that line the highway.</center> <center>Cars and trucks hurrying past stir up a breeze, </center> <center>which cool me, while I sit nursing my aching feet.</center><center>I pause from mumbling to myself about my current</center> <center>state, just long enough to look across the highway</center> <center>at the remnants of the river forest. </center> <center>The spot my pain has chosen for me is opposite a huge</center><center>redwood tree encircled by a wild grape vine, a vine as thick</center> <center>as my wrist. The vine, though gnarled and twisted,</center> <center>serenely continues its slow climb towards the sun.</center> <center>Maple, bay, and the fir beyond it are reaching down to </center> <center>the river's edge.</center> <center>A great blue heron stalks silently out of the shadows,</center><center>pauses, waits awhile patiently, then moves on, passing </center> <center>out of my sight. <center> <center>I get slowly back up and continue towards home, my</center><center>thoughts no longer focused on my aching feet.</center> <center>I had not missed the lesson provided this day, especially the</center> <center>part about gnarled old vines having the best view. </center></center></center>