This might be the place:
I could lie down in these woods,
hearing the treetop rustle dwindle.
Or should it be this meadow
among buttercups, daisies, clover.
Stars above extinguish in fitful flicker.
I might sit on this hill,
breathing the last of the wind-blown air
as darkness slowly hides the view.
Perhaps I should trust in this river
with its cold impersonal tides.
Widening ripples fade and subside.