Who rides the lonely trails, ear to ground
Listening for footfalls, coming down.

The animals sense a presence, yet unturned;
Over the mountain, past the berm.

Disturbed pebbles mar the pond's smooth face,
A faraway dust cloud closing space.

Silent trees listen as if holding breath;
Their ancient roots feel movement shift.

Something beckons something old,
From far days we thought were gone

And there is home; dear home, we knew
Still full with dreams, that can't come true.

This we know; and we know it, plain
But it’s the heart, goes back again.

Patti Masterman

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ripples-19/