(1)
ash-gray autumn sky
box elders burn frosted gold
the old hills still call

(2)
loved ones now long passed
live still in October pines
as ghosts of the hunt

(3)
with no more blood lust
nor sharpend sense of the chase
warm Truth is quarry

(4)
its gray-green steepness
its song of the rushing tongues
tie me to Black Pine

10/18/2005