--in the cracks--

In olden waste lands 
where I lived 
amid tall pines 
and leaning granite slabs. 
Winds sad song sighs 
through crevices in stone and wood. 
Harmony in the sighing of caves 
and pine needles. 
A click of stones a hare wanders by 
nipping at clover and moss 
in the cracks. 
Sleeping bag folded in half, 
sitting cross legged, with a book,
a pad, a few pencils too 
the unverse a blue sky 
while beneath slow eroding granites 
sleeping dog at my knees 
trusting in an adopted leader.