Horizons Beyond the Pines

Morning unfolds like silk across the valley,

pine-tops kindling beneath first light,

mist drifting unhurried over the river’s cool skin.

Boot soles tap a measured pulse

on soil that remembers rainfall and footsteps—

roads uncoil behind the hills,

each curve a question, each birdsong an almost-answer.

By noon the sun climbs high; stones warm through,

my breath merges with the wandering breeze.

Some miles feel weightless,

others ask for stories I’m not yet ready to share.

Then evening—a revelation, not merely dusk—

sky bursting amethyst and wine,

distance gathering inside my ribs,

no longer measured by leagues or lines on a map

but by the hush between heartbeat and horizon.

The path stops feeling like departure;

it draws the world closer—

cedar scent caught in my sleeves,

starlight settling on eyelashes,

the earth itself keeping pace beside me.

Night rests cool hands on my shoulders;

a campfire flares, sparks vault upward—

tiny letters posted to tomorrow.

Here, miles dissolve:

arrival has been traveling with me

since the first crack of dawn.