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Thursday, October 13, 2011

Forest, a poetic discription.

The sky is clear, brilliantly blue. I sit in a dry creek bed. The walls of rock get higher and higher as it goes. I sit at the top, where a water fall would be. The air is sweet, a flowery perfume of fall. Birds sing as I look. I close my eyes and listen, breathing  in the smell of Autumn. I open my eyes and see squirrels playing, running up and down a fallen tree. The bed of moss I sit on is green, fresh from the new rain. The jagged rocks poke out of the wall, creating false caves and overhangs filled with spiders and insects. I look again to the fallen tree, it was old. Someone cut it down. Now it is part of the stream, a thing for animals to play with. A cry comes up, a screaming child crosses the bridge over the creek, killing the silence. I sigh. I get up to leave this peaceful place. I cross under the bridge and up the path. I look back at the rocks I sat on. I will come back, but I wont get to sit on the rocks again. I will be an intruder to this place, like the child. For a little while I was welcome, like I belonged in this wild, free world. I will be welcomed back, but not yet.

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