To Stride over Hill and Dell

To stride over hill and dell

To scoop up these small facets of light,

refracted by the holly, broken by the western squall.

My fingernails are ever gritty with the marks of the land,
the discards of crows and
the vain attempts of snatching scent from the loam.

But if I've learned one thing, 

it's that there is no "too old" for squatting in the detritus, sifting for story.

For when I rise, they dip their heads in conspiratorial agreement,

For the crows and I, we sing in bones.