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The Hill

- by Linn Barnes

The Hill

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.