I sit under a tree near the Prescott airport,
next to the intersection where willow creek road ends and begins,
on a warm January afternoon.
I listen to the cars as they slow down to a stop at the light,
to the pause while the light is red and the cars are at rest,
and to the cars as they start up again once the light turns green.

With the tree at my back and the sun on my face,
I just sit there and listen and hardly move.

The cars at ground level slow down, stop, and start up again,
while a plane above flies on until it arrives at its destination.
Some of the passengers on the plane drift off into sleep
as the pilot prepares to lift off into flight,
sleep while the plane is in the air,
and wake up again once the plane touches ground.
The passengers in the plane drift off, sleep, and wake up again.

I just sit there and listen and hardly move,
feeling the tree at my back and the sun on my face.

The clouds are wisps, languid and fluid,
floating along like driftwood in a still-moving stream,
moving on at whatever pace the stream moves on.
Today the stream is still-moving.

The cars as they slow down
sound like the water in a stream
after it has passed through some rapids.
After passing through the rapids,
the water slows down and becomes a still-moving stream.

Feeling the tree at my back and the sun on my face,
watching the cars move from east to west,
and the planes move from west to east
I can do nothing,
I can think of nothing I would rather do
than sit here and listen and hardly move.