Hunting Vole with Kestrels

The sky is so blue

it is almost painful

to behold

above the dull brown

top of Mission peak

Like Frodo

I dwell in a land of magic

hunting vole

with the patient Kestrels

hovering like silent helicopters

above the sturdy brown grass

Swift as I climbed this hill

forcing my heart

to pump the sweat

through my skin,

so I linger on the way down

like a warrior

reluctant to leave

his meadows

for the swamps of war

For all the suffering of men

none have suffered

as those who find beauty

in this world

knowing that every flower

withers and dies

under the sun's

beautiful rays

We must take time

away from toil

to smell the scent

of Eucalyptus oil

like liquid sugar

on the brain

to hunt vole

with Kestrels

among grassy hills

of brown, perfumed

by the Eucalyptus

growing on the banks

of winter streams

to linger among

the grazing cows

and mating ants

sticking like confetti

to sweaty skin

until the dying sun

has set the grass

ablaze