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Ridge Trail, Late Autumn
Boot prints in last night’s frost—
deer, coyote, mine.
Clouds build slow in the west,
stacking over the valley like stones
in a dry riverbed.
A hawk hunkers in the bare oak,
shoulders high against the wind.
Chickadees scratch at sumac pods,
busy with what the world leaves behind.
Farther up, the ridge splits—
granite ribs poking through thin soil.
Two ravens ride the updraft,
calling once, then gone.
To sit here is to listen—
the whole land shifting,
never still, never waiting.
Once, I walked here
with a friend, now dust.
He said the mind, like a trail,
only wears itself in with use.
Now I hear him in the wind,
moving through dry grass,
still walking. |
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