your breath plumes out
into the chill morning air
cold slowly cut
by the rising sun
the woods are slow
your footfalls; cymbals crashing
so you stop and watch
as it all unfolds.
© Erik Hansen 2016
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Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, Poetry, Writing
Tagged as April, Connecticut, NaPoWriMo2016, outdoors, poem, poet, poetry, poetry community, poets, write, writer, writes, Writing, writing community
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