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The Creek

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Weaving in and out of gaps in the trees,
A silver needle with amber thread.
Hair is flowing around my shoulders,
Like the creeks tiny stream.
Wind rushes through the autumn leaves,
Making them flutter to the ground.
Look to the heavens and see sparkling stars,
A wreath around the sliver moon.
Eyes catch sight of a family of raccoons,
Their masks hiding their emotions.
Fog swirls,
Creating an invisible blanket of cold.
Fingers creep along oak’s swollen skin,
Bumps and jagged scars.
In the distance a bird calls,
Looking for its mate.
Sun is rising,
Painting vivid streaks across a blue canvass.
Look up and a smile comes faintly to lips,
So this is true freedom…





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