under the watchful eye

I am as still and silent as that river that sits and waits for the rain.

My fingers are stretched but not forceful. My feet are webbing in anticipation of that sweet warm moisture that wraps around me. That smells like all that I know.

Now is not later. In the candlelight I confessed that the country might steal my heart again. We're only just scratching the surface. Our fingernails are yet to bleed.

My heart returns to that same sweet song of solitude. I am fortunate to know that good tune. Hammocked and hampered my bundle is wrapped solidly. Not yet tight.