Weary of the discipline of walls, I walked out along the yellow hills, looking across the terraced valleys.

Here and there, smoke twisted from tin-pipe chimneys and lifted the slate sky and its whispered threats of snow.

There I lost the afternoon amid the quiet of sky and hill. As evening burned,

I descended to the clamor of the barracks, the radio's blare, leaving behind the silence-- the last I was to know of peace.

Adam Tyson

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