Giant

The hill moved, and it was a giant. A stride that covered more ground than a person can shout across, the old tall folk of the ridge, head in the weather. People looked up and forgot the road. They went on with a giant gift already in the neck, the ache of looking that high. It shows again in giant playing cards that seem too small for the figure on them, in a giant notebook left open to a line about the stride, in a giant postcard of the foot and the broken heather. The hill settles. The stride does not.