I used to roam these blue ridge hills
when I was young so long ago
jumping across the tumbling rills
always seeking......I don't know.

Back then the stops were usually few,
young legs had little need of rest,
each ridge top scaled brought a new view
giving purpose to each quest.

Years went by and years went by
yet these steep old hills remained the same
as the trees inched upward seeking the sky;
they grew more firm, I grew more lame.

Yet here I am at a ridge top,
the only one I'll scale today,
for having got here now I'll stop
to rest and see what comes my way.

I'm here on a late winter day,
cool, but not cold here in the sun
enough breeze to set dead leaves to play
tagging each other as they turn dun.

There's no need to plan for my next stride
which gives me time, instead,to dream
sitting here on this hill side
with just a glimpse of a small stream.

A hawk is soaring way up high
screaming its joy to be alive
in a nearly cloudless azure sky.
He and his mate swoop, soar and dive.

Then a fox squirrel begins to scold
far down the ridge and out of sight
perhaps at a buck proud and bold
or a fox passing red and bright.

Then for a while the woods are still.
the only sound is the light wind.
So I sit and think on this steep hill
dreaming of the world of way back then.

Long before we white men came
Indians passed through now and then
these hills held other types of game
which likely won't return again.

In fall the hills echoed elks' lust
with their high and haunting call,
antlers rang as herd bulls fussed
each stag wanting to breed all.

And at night the wolves would howl
at the full moon or seeking prey
(woe to any man who heard pack's growl)
long before coyotes came to stay.

Even bison roamed these lands
although a different larger breed
dodging Indian hunting bands
seeking to fulfill their tribe's needs.

And before them were mastodon,
camel and giant three toed sloth
for saber tooths to feed upon,
each one a thread in nature's cloth.

A large twig snaps and brings me back.
To my left appears a small buck deer
with a compact six point rack
who quickly trots away from here.

Just as well, It's time I go
so I arise on popping knees
as a stiff evening wind begins to blow
chasing off the warmer mid-day breeze.

And as I begin my homeward walk
I pause to wonder if I'll return to here
and if years from now young folks will talk
of this old one who once stalked deer.