title: Shape of a Hill: Poems, prose poems
author:  Stewart S. Warren 
description: "Poetry with intelligence, hard-won wisdom, humor and humanity. Stewart S. Warren's long awaited collection is an invitation to see ourselves 'in the shiny mud,' to lean into one another, to get down on our knees and to enter the house of experience."<br /> --Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, author of <i>If You Listen</i> and <i>Insatiable</i><br /><i></i><br /> "Warren is a writer who sees deep into the heart of this world, a writer whose voice bounces off canyon walls and travels along rivers to their desert ends. One can be sure that the echo of this poet's voice will always come back to the reader with clear, authentic and beautiful tones. It would seem that any moment or encounter is reason enough for Warren to take pen to paper and write heartfelt poems that linger with a reader the way all good art should.<br /> Early in this collection Warren writes 'Everything has become an instrument.' Perhaps there is no better description of these poems, these poems which echo through mountain ranges, New Mexican villages, the many colored skins of the earth and into flight with birds and then settle so nicely back down to earth with her people and their history. Warren is a lover of all that the earth contains or lets go and these poems reflect that love."<br /> --Aaron A. Abeyta, author of <i>Colcha</i> and <i>As Orion Falls</i>
zlib_text: > Hill Girl
  
  > by
  
  > Charles Williams
  
  > 1951
  
  > Contents
  
    
  
   _Title Page_  
  _One_  
  _Two_  
  _Three_  
  _Four_  
  _Five_  
  _Six_  
  _Seven_  
  _Eight_  
  _Nine_  
  _Ten_  
  _Eleven_  
  _Twelve_  
  _Thirteen_  
  _Fourteen_  
  _Fifteen_  
  _Sixteen_  
  _Seventeen_  
  _Eighteen_  
  _Nineteen_  
  _Twenty_  
  _Twenty-one_  
  _Twenty-two_  
  _Twenty-three_  
  _Twenty-four_  
  
  > _One_
  
  I stopped the Ford on a bench halfway down a long, gentle hill and got out and
  stretched and felt suddenly warm outside and inside; the morning sun was
  climbing higher now, and I was almost home. It was October and the colors were
  running down the hillsides and along the little creek bottoms like a fire that
  couldn’t make up its mind where it wanted to go.
  
  There had been a light frost and now all that was left of it was where the
  shadows still lay a little dark and cool behind the old fence posts and in the
  burrow pit beside the dry red clay and dust of the road. The dewberry vines
  didn’t have any leaves now and their runners w