Musing: The Hills top

I stand at the top, savoring this freedom

Oh hear me, hear me sweet Freedom!

I see the happy white clouds sail away,

I see the black hawks circle above me,

I hear the sound of talking, of machines, of the wild, altogether!

I see mother Natures great painting tablet,

I see the town and her gay hustle bustle

Roof tops glittering, hundreds or more,

Across the plains, solitary roofs, grouped roofs,

Perfect mix of greeny hues beside them, patches of black,

And dots of silver, shining in the hot sun, riding fast away,

Cockcroaching through the cover of tree leaves below

Blowing smoke up the hill which fade off with the wind,

I see the smooth river, I reach out to touch it from the hill

It flowed in unison, running towards the hidden great rocks

Washing away falling tree logs and pulling lazy canoes along,

I see the tents of cattlemen generously sited at the forest lines

And sometimes, sometimes I thought I could smell their cooking

The hill top tells much of the world below,

But I am blessed with the feel of freedom it gave!

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