The root of Evening From Hillcrest extends back to when I was a little boy doing my nightly paper route. The last part of of my evening delivery was along Hillcrest Drive (where I now live) and from this vantage point, I would marvel at the open beauty of the land.
Over the next few years the sunsets would slowly be left in shadow, urban development gradually filled in the horizon as I watched the Rembrandt fade.
This image stayed with me forever and became the genesis for Evening from Hillcrest.
This week’s poem XXVII Casts, is a sketch from last fall - I love catch and release fishing, the process is meditative, the rhythm of casting and the surroundings of the natural world make it one of my ‘guilty’ pleasures.
Joy Brooks - Vocals, percussion
Fredrick Brooks - Acoustic Guitar
Katherine McKenzie - Harmony Vocals
Caroline Brooks - Harmony Vocals
Robbie Grunwald - Keyboards, Bass
Bryden Baird - Horns
Joseph Shabason - Flute
Chris Pezzarello - Drums, Percussion
Recorded and produced by Robbie Grunwald - Raven Tape Music Room and Union Sound - Chris Stringer and Darren McGill
Mastered by Justin Gray - Immersive Mastering
<Click here to listen to Evening from Hillcrest>
EVENING FROM HILLCREST
Evening from Hillcrest falling of day
In crimson detail I can see
The season changes
Wind and folly - Life flows…
How she turns day to eve
A shadowed night set in blue
This thin edge held with skyline
Life flows…
And as one follows to another
This skyline remains unseen
Watch the Rembrandt fade
With each stroke of genius
My eyes fixed to the blackest night
On and on
Release…
Evening from Hillcrest falling of day
In crimson detail I can see
The season changes
Wind and folly
Life flows - life flows - life flows
©Fredrick Brooks
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XXVII CASTS
I walk the gravel path
Rod and reel in hand
Down to the lake, across the T-shaped decking
I pause - meditate on the diminishing sunset
The distant shoreline, camp smoke lifting through the vast forest’s canopy.
The evening is descending into shadow
I release my line, watch it arch and slowly drop to the lake’s surface
I flip the bale and wind it slowly
Watching droplets of water fall from the eyelets
I cast twenty-seven times
Listening to the peeper’s song fill the forest
As two loons pass overhead
Their mournful cry, a sweet counterpoint
And once again, no fish tugs my line
No matter
It’s now what it’s about
Last cast
I turn and walk the sandy path
The cabin lights beckon
My world is at peace.
©Fredrick Brooks
Grass Lake - Fall/2025