Native Woman

March 17, 2017
By Anonymous

The native woman sits on the hill
Red clay dry on her feet
Her hair sways in the gentle breeze
Arms open to the sky
The wind is slow the day is still
The smell of summer sweet
She watches rustles of the trees
With a watchful eye

She is a river, she is a mountain
She is a story, she is a song
She flows just like a fountain
Through whatever comes along



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