Wind

I ride my bike to the top of South Table Mountain.  

In wind, flower and grass bend and rush.  

Mask the sound of my passing. 

The sounds of human existence mute once entering hidden valley.  

Wind rush and bird song intensify.
I diminish, blend with the landscape.  

Listen.  

Wind you are my paint brush, the scribe of my mind and memory, 

portrait of my day in the land.