- by Linn Barnes
The Hill
-LinnBarnes
It’s been raining in the Blue Ridge,
pouring down the gutters on the house,
and crashing on the metal roof
of my studio on the wooded hill
which I kind of like when
I play either guitar, mandolin
or fiddle all cranked up
and bent by Dali-esque reverbs
into landscapes sparked with sound,
maddening fury and delight, while
eagles savage the river below me,
stamping deer trample all about me,
even an occasional black bear
peering into my large window
on the east from all the many trails below
and about me where life lives and processes
endlessly to unknown rhythms and dark cadences
illuminating with the light pouring in from the east
the glory or despair of my chosen time
here in solitude on the hill in my dreams.