Afternoon Poem, October 6, 2016


In the tenth hour of the tenth day of the tenth month

We go rolling like a river through the turning trees

Then out into open pastures and meadows

Where crows lift out of brush piles and the crooked creek runs slow and clear.


The morning is bright and cold and on the downhills

I start to shiver and peddle hard for the next patch of sunlight

To warm my back.


copyright 2016

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