Table Rock

It's the fall's last breath before the first of winter    
and the breeze feels good when I stop to ponder  
amid flowing streams and the birds distant twitter    
and the occasional rustle of dried leaves –    
though few remain on the trees;    
on their tall trunks,    
both branch and bough    
tellingly swaying leaf bare now    
   
And I hear voices calling above and below    
on the trail, snatches, as the breeze carries them so;    
indifferent among leaves of russet and yellow    
as I sit where they've fallen beneath the trees    
dreaming dreams of memories    
Autumn conjures    
to my minds eye    
of soul felt things before they bye    
   
Then it's on again with the climb past boulders strong    
and stone laid stairs. Certain trees stand like beacons    
saying: easy now, faster, conserve, move along –    
teaching my body as my body learns the trail,    
like the lifting of a veil,  
unlooked for    
the physical    
awakening the spiritual.    
   
I love places where the trail curves out around the slope    
catching the freshening breeze, a cool relief,    
to the stuffy course into the folds and having to cope    
with the heat and feeling like I'm sweating to death    
and being all out of breath    
But journey calls    
and I must go    
hiking however fast or slow    
   
The wind catches the few remaining brown turned leaves    
their rustling sounds like soft fall of rain or the sea
and all is transformed beneath the forest's eves.    
It's nice to escape from "have to be and want to be"    
(though my tooth’s been killing me    
- but I digress).  
Mountain and wood,  
being outside just feels good.    
   
Overhead a hawk sails slow circles before my gaze    
as I summit. At the overlook I take my ease,
the hills don’t roll as far into the distant haze    
In the cool light they seemingly blur and they fade      
as the sun, passing clouds shade.    
Far from the crowds    
my cares have flown    
here in this place I am my own.    
   
What is that mark within the heart that beats,    
the knowing that says here my soul has found rest,    
the distance into which my daily cares retreat?    
Here forgotten in seeming remembrance    
of clear vision seen in trance    
blending of sky,    
and wood, and stone,    
than any home that I have known.    
   
Long I stay but daylight fails at length and at last    
and I turn my course downward like mountain stream    
from heavenward thought to tread a more lowland cast.    
And yet, one last breath I breathe deep of hallowed ground    
and the part of me refound    
as if finding    
Is the right word.    
As though a hawk is just a bird    
   
The sun is westerning behind the mountain's crest    
and goldens the tree tops with trunks shadow blessed.    
Shadows lie deepening swiftly in twilight's rest    
as I descend towards the still lake below    
where sunsets last sparkles glow.    
Evenings coming    
hastening so,    
and before it comes I must go