Three Weeks

There is peace in this country

Inside the hills and their rain

There is a gentle nudge of tranquility

Yet, still a stir rolling quietly beneath my skin

Like the streams discreetly slipping through each town

Becoming rivers
But never raging

Growing wide and white

And fleeting

Disappearing into timber and blue stone

Finding space to hide beneath the weight of this place

To keep moving quietly

To come out the other side as a trickle

A wet stone face on the side of a highway

Something small, swelling

Into river and white water

But never raging