Thrasher's Call

The cooling shaded air of hollows fills with sizzle of cicadas’ cycling cries, as I careen through woodland greens at speed, and still drink deep beside the creek of flowing wonders for my eyes, as racing on I go, every breath and sweating pore an aspiring psalm of praise poured forth for the luxury of voluntary toil here along the potter’s red-clay soil, where the thriving kudzu vines remind my racing heart and calming mind to abide in peace and praise for the verdant gift of paths in woods, the copper calm of sunset days, and the loving graces of the One who made them very good.