i run by nisky hill, the final place of so many.
new to me.
but not to fawn and family.
not to the deer or the dear man, in sunday best, who visits his beloved.
the plot is his sweet spot, where hellos and goodbyes meet, have, hold, and let go.
i think of him as i pass.
and of the many who lay, even with the ground or reaching towards heaven.
to each his own.
i’m thankful for the legs beneath me, and those that walk beside.
we share the path, the ground, the plodding plot.
and have much to look forward to . . .
in the passing.