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Hiking
by Ken Shiovitz Woods
are safely silent, Twigs
crack beneath the feet, So
still that distant flutters Just
accentuate the sweet. Then
exploding off the leaflets,
Attacking otic par,
"I’ll kill you little bastard!”
"Noooo, mom, its just not fair."
Through parting of the branches, A
field and then a house, Good
half-a-mile distant, Yet
freezing fox and grouse.
Reversal of direction, Moving
through the shielding growth,
Pulsing head rejects acoustics, Until
peace reconquers both. |
