These Hills

An old man 

with a streak or two of gray, and an omnipresent, fathoming grin.

Yes. He pressed the keys of his piano.

They made sounds.

Funny, those sounds sounded like more than sounds. Like words. Like a painting.

And those sounds lifted him up to the highest hill top overlooking the lackadaisical bunch of elk.

They glanced at him, and saw an elk. 

He descended. 

A clique of aloof hummingbirds fluttered about.

Yes, very querulous they were, snobby.

But that elk tucked his legs under him as he slightly jumped.

In less time than it will take you to read this, he was a 

fully and perfectly formed hummingbird.

They gladly gave him a seat at the table.

And so on.

A horse with a majestic mane capering and leaping down a field.

A leaf with vibrant hues

A native with painted eyebrows and a melodic dancing song.

That man was.

But that the youth.

Sex, Rock 'N Roll, Drugs, Drinks

All that was taboo, frowned upon 

was that boy's to enjoy.

He ran up that hill backwards, fell, and took a drink.

He climbed that hill drunk, high.

The animals saw a panther in his eyes.

A possession.

An obsession.

Shoulders uneven, arms akimbo like he was better than rules and the

hair on his head chopped in ridiculous places.

But that boy made it to the top of the hill the same time as the old man made it to the bottom.

Yet, they helped each other.

The old man gave him a smile from the bottom.

The boy gave him a smile.

They pretend to be friends.

Like honey laced with cayenne, these hills bring us up, break us down, split us apart, pour everything out, shove it back in, and call it a lesson.

Someday, these hills will stop.

But not today.

Or tomorrow.