Thin Air

Pine sap sticks to my hands.
So do seven blades of sweetgrass.

A cherished trail ends at the tree line.
Scree fails to retain footprints.

No need to fortify the eagle’s nest.
A nonchalant god cloaks itself in clouds.

No memory of Moses here.
No shepherds need guard the local goats.

Shout Hullo like a precocious boy.
Echo rebounds many times.

copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney

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