I watch from the treesswinging on a hammockthe earth swaying with the wind.Lost in my journal,a jungle of wordssit waiting for the gatheringof fire and hearth.The creek never stops the flowdescending,cascading privatelydownhilla memorized pathwhile I keep holding onto the bark rooted insideof me.Wind chimes dance toan alto gypsy symphonyresembling Irish moorslong ago in a remotecountry side.The flapping of wingsflutter all around me,embracing the opennessas I emerge from here to therethrough waking dreamsin the gorge of a private forest.