Ground fog slips around

The trunks of hickories and oaks

Pines gnarled with time

An owls bass hoot

Drums up through

Your belly

As you ascend the rock strewn crest

These hills are worn down

With age

But not brittle, not fragile

They possess a low slung strength


In their ubiquitous power.

© Erik Hansen 2015


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Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, Poetry, Writing

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