The Lowland

High up in the expansive

Winter white trees topped with green

Lost mountain ranges

littered with bits of grass

here and there

brushy, rocky hills

fall back behind me

a slow, methodical walk

foot carrying foot

rhythmatic as any primordial drum beat

all but the brisk wooshing

of the creeks that leave themselves so pure

confined under the comfort of their icy crusts


Dry ground descending over forgotten layers of clouds

the flatness insignificant to the embrace of wild

farms and picket white fences ahead

the true home behind me

I have now come to the


The End

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