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And the hills roll as they always have and somewhere in the woods that bend and wrap around those hills the bark splits from the trunk of a shagbark hickory and a fox squirrel drops a patter of cuttings through crisp oversized leaves as a boy with a shotgun on his shoulder cocks ears and trains eyes for a glimpse of red fur between the parting of green and at the edge of the woods where dried corn rustles in the breeze Queen Anne's Lace stands in jagged profusion and over these hills that will always roll a black chicken hawk with eyes sharp for the subtlest gradations glides in a circle that will never end
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From Somewhere in Southern Indiana
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