This was written sitting in the rain on the side of a mountain in northeastern Maine, near the Canadian border.
A Mountainside Field in Maine
Mountains cascading one past another,
Some soaring to great heights,
Others reaching only high enough,
To break the looker's distant view.
Sifting through valleys and slumbering villages,
Trees sprinkled about the countryside,
In number; a reflection to the evening stars above.
The looker shuts his eyes to alert his other senses.
Gone are the familiar sounds of traffic, telephones and angry voices,
Present now is near silence - or so it would seem.
For now, the listener can hear birds singing from their nearby stages of branch and leaf,
He hears the wind ruffle through the acres of grass all around him,
And feels it as it gently kisses his cheeks and caresses his hair.
There are many sounds,
But they are soft, inviting and at peace with each other.
He opens his eyes to see the heavenly quiet he had heard and felt,
He feels a million miles away,
He feels near to God,
He feels so close to nature,
He smiles and closes his eyes once more.
Copyright SGW 1995