During an era of impressionist living
I would drive out to the Bluegrass countryside
in deepest snows
and traipse alone for many hours
through chiaroscurist black/white
snowscapes of hills and fields
descending deeply incised valleys
in that karst topography
deeply incised in my brain folds
and walk alone in icy streams
and talk to crows
and sit alone under rock overhangs
never wanting to return
to whatever one must eventually return to
except perhaps I have never
really returned from wherever I was
when conversing (never really alone)
with the crowscapes and snowscapes
of Home.
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