Millhouse

The grassy path winds down
to the small bend in the creek,
deep in the undergrowth,
beside the old mill pond.

Blackened tracks from my tires
worn and aged into
the packed dirt of the
little known path.

I perch upon the rocks
of the old wheel house.
The aged hardware
of the millhouse
creaking in the
late summer wind.

It is not hard to see why
I have chose this place
for my retreat.

It is well past the noon hour,
and I doubt that I shall make it back
before the end of day.

But that is fine with me.
I cherish the slower pace.