The truth in this dreaming that the hilltops in the distance are waiting. Just a half a circle now, threads of gold in the soil hold the promise of a green and glowing joy. And the ground that's arising in your heart fills your red rivers thick with vines. They are growing wide, they are shooting stars burning softly through your belly and your arms. And pulling through your breath the fated tune, finding hymns in every thorn and every bloom, then the terrible sight: the tomato and the vine crushed to die in the middle of the road. There beside the deer and the dog. But you know he would kiss them if he could, and you hope to find him there upon the hilltop. Under hovering hawks, under shooting stars, under clouds rising all in time.