poetry

Here I am again in the woods alone. All the memories flood back. Im heading to 50, on the Lovers Leap and Chasse Galerie, Note: Brush cut Lovers Leap around intersection of 38. Even 21 Rapides Blanc could use it. At home with the Otter Slides, In fresh November snow, coyotes crisscross my footsteps and daydreams Porcupine girdled a huge Beech on the Portageur. and at the Viking too. Spandex suited trail runners synchronize their spandex space suits and look at me like who am I? Who the fuck are you? I work here. Golden snowflakes fall in November Balsam wood and the heart breaks, like dry branches, with the appreciation of their beauty. Meanwhile the creek passes its time running away with your thoughts, as your anger dissipates. Far from the folly of sugar stress stricken humans dragging their souls like heavy stones behind them. And the moss go on carpeting the floor for free, soaking up my rubber bootsteps as I spring along on Purple Kush high over the chest of the Triangle trail

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