The wind sighs
in the yellow grass
in the boughs
of the green pines
The hills roll
released from their
glacial prison
before mankind got here
I watch the moon
set behind a roofline
The trees mark
my horizon around me
Only on the road of kings
do I have an unimpeded view
but the sea remains
a long distance away
I can't hear its questioning voice
I can't just cross the road to it
It's not just a dozen miles
to meet the Atlantic
I can feel its presence from afar
I can hear beyond hearing
its caressing voice
as always, wherever I was
When I'm back by the sea
I'll hear the trees sighing from afar
as the wind rustles in the grass
looking for me, when I'm not here
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