I spent the last hour hiking up to the top of the hill above my house.  I’ve felt it calling me for some time now, but didn’t  want to hike it because I knew that it contained something good and mysterious — So I awoke this morning and debated, then made no decision to go or not go; I just went.  I passed the fire station at the trailhead and was ready for my hour or so of seclusion — about 200 feet below the crest, a man my age passed me wearing dress shoes, jeans and no shirt.  He strangely became less proper as his longitude increased.  I politely moved to the side and let him pass as I hoped he didn’t have the same destination as I had (there is a large cross at the top of this hill that I’ve seen for about a year and i had always felt magnanimous while looking at it). 

– So I linger once at the top, knowing where he went and make a left into an oak grove, giving him his hard-earned time with God.  As I duck to enter, the scabrous sheet of leaves crunches under my feet and wakes me up as I lift my head.  I see a tree house 20 feet off the floor and leave my hat to climb up into the canopy, and this is where I write from — This was my destination, the cross only drew me here — I don’t think I’ll go see that cross now, God is here.