Prospect Hill Paperboy

Everyday after school.

I made the trek.

With a sense of purpose hanging 'round my neck.

Sometimes upon my trusted, metal steed.

Delivering  a myriad of happenings.

To every doorstep.

First stopping below, to admire a babbling brook.

A deep meditation that I always took.

In an empty field.

Contemplating my chore.

Convening with life.

The weather my companion or nemesis.

Either with me or against.

Perhaps an unfriendly dog.

Is there a fence?

I made the climb.

Imagining I was king.

Surveying my realm.

Everyone needing me.

"Hello, Mrs. Lynch.

How are you today?"

Inquiring from my rounds in the sky.

"Hot enough for 'ya?", came the reply.

I went along.

Singing my song.

Bearing news was my thrill.

Traipsing about on ...

... Prospect Hill ...

Author's Note

"The higher the mountain on which you stand, the less change in the prospect from year to year, from age to age. Above a certain height there is no change." - Thoreau