I freed the slaves, the ones I’ve chained to my inner plantation, the shadow ground tilled with fear of wrong doing. The harvest of insecurity

Sun is down in its winter home, barely visible above naked branches, the valley without rain for the first time in weeks. Dry and bright,

for Bob Weaver Gunnysacks cover the winter crop, the root cellar dry and warm in its burrow; outside the sea lifts in the driving wind,

On a trail down to the hidden cove and one along the mountain river, the brown earth and rolling sea spoke to us the way