1. From the trees beside me a hawk emerges, falling horizontally toward Bradley Falls. This deep glen is close-in to my skin. I take it so, returning to squat down, unclothed, by the cliff, watching hawks hunting or playing, flying below. The beginning itself of the valley, Bradley, with abrupt beauty falls from one pool two, three hundred feet —an easy reach— down to Cove Creek. 2. In summer, the green surface of these mountains becomes a montage of photographs of trees. I imagine myself in different homesites behind those huge arrays of subtle movement, just beyond a sheet of trees, or along a line which indicates a stream, or by the base of a tall cedar halfway down the picture just across the opening before me. Those sites burn within me: a feeling like love, a longing for it. 3. The sun here, scattered through hickory and walnut, is not intense enough to color my paper skin. It probably shines, white through the leaves.