I Look to the Hills

There is never any
doubt where my eyes
will look in this
idyllic landscape
of our home.

To the hills,
always to the hills
do I lift up my eyes;

I look to the hills.

Most times it is
an autonomic response
to my panning
across the horizon,

watchful and attentive
as a wonder-seeker,

an awe-junkie.
Trees call me to their
leaves or hollow absence
of the same;

pointing up

across the treetops
our hungry vision
is lured up, always up
toward the places in which
the landscape is pushed
heavenward by unseen
and colossal tectonic machinations.

Mountains, hills,
bluffs and ridges
pull our sight up them in
a backward alluviation of
fallen debris.

I look to the hills
and am lost in a
whirring noise
that is the backdrop
of all space and time.

Radical amazement has
come into me from what
these eyes have seen.

I behold glory in a
pile of earth, I feel
mystery in the tremendum
of these mountains,
I smell humility in the
dirt of these hills.

I look to the hills

and let the stillness in.