On a downward slant,
or an upward tilt,
I traverse this plain horizontally.
The grass looks soft from a distance,
but rocks and sharp sticks protrude up close.
Birds chorus through,
crows sombrely name a place that the kookas laugh at.
While the littler birds have a field day,
in every tree.
Soft mould like grass is my feets refuge.
I step on an ant hill and leap and brush.
Another call in the distance,
I wonder how many people actually come out here.
I haven’t seen a hill
I haven’t seen a soul.