The Hill

THE HILL

The birds, cedars, calves and me,
are on the hill and wait to see
what the sky will bring.

Meadowlarks trill their tune,
sensing a storm will be here soon.
They flit about the field.

Cedars quietly tell their tale,
swaying gently in the gale.
Whispering things to come.

In the pasture, calves are playing
while nearby mama's laying,
having no cares at all.

Me, I'm keeping watchful eye
west and south, up to the sky
for sign of storms portending.

A change occurs, all is still
atop my lonely, little hill.
Thunder calls my name.