Little fire in the hills, February chills,

lying on the ground, looking at little flames,

listening to the sound,

the sun from where I lie already low in the sky,

seems to hover above my cover,

behind a hedge of wild plum,

geese fly over heading for the lake,

I don’t know where they are coming from,

my mood is mellowed by sun’s light in the grass,

feels to me like a season has begun to pass,

only the slightest breeze stirs,

the life in the prairie under my belly purrs,

at age sixty-two I wonder when I will get old,

as the little fire dies and I feel the cold,

I leave my little fire and walk up a hill,

I could say my winter season has begun, but today,

I walk the hills, still.