Looking down for miles through the high still air.
At The Edge Of The Ozarks (haibun)
Not really mountains but high hills, though no less prepossessing to someone from the level land of prairie where distance and destination
are horizontal and one proceeds without giving much thought to simply placing one foot in front of another. Here again and again progress is to come to cross purposes, the going around something that doesn't want
you there. Far below is a fault line where two contentions of creation have riven and risen into these steep slopes of granite and first forest, half-buried boulders ice-age old left behind in the ancient flow melt, lifted up into foundations and capstones, past and present.
a thousand years
following the footsteps
in my blood
A path so old, so barely there, that I can easily believe the last feet to follow it were the moccasins of one of my ancestors, stalking a deer up to the promontory or seeking the spring-source of the stream that makes its own way, first deeper into its decline and then slowing and settling in a clearing, a pool in a cup of stone, staying and going on again.
hearing the old stories
the telling in their old language
wind in oaks and pines
Poetry by countryfog
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Written on 2015-05-19 at 16:53
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