The evening sets in, as it begins to spread its shadows around me. Another day with all of its things to do has now been done.

I sit and consider tomorrow as yet, we all do with the many plans and things we consider. We hit the road once again, to familiar places traveled before. Some days at Walmart parked alongside others who stop on the way to their next destination.

It’s like we’re ships that pass in the night; wanderers who travel the roads before us, making friends with some, and distancing ourselves from others.

Then back on up to the Ponderosas and Oaks. Back on up to stillness and utter quietness – away from the traffic and noise, and clamor of the city.

Up to where the timeless beauty resides. The everlasting hills and valleys call out to those who would listen. They speak if you only had ears to hear.

There the voice of the Spirit will come, as it circles and spreads its wings through the grasses and hills. The crow and the sparrow will sing, but their voices are not the One that I long to hear.

And there’s always time for the easel and the canvas. There’s always time for the paint, the brushes, and the palette.

Each new vista and grove calls out to me, and speaks a yearning to be remembered through my hands.

Would you come and join with me, to those places that I speak now to you? You need not have skill or gifts that abound, but only a willing heart that can hear and see.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?