By: Jim Bates

The granite ground sparkles
Sun beating down releasing scents
Green lichen, brown grass, and sage
Dried horse manure, too.

Through the polished white poplars
The river glistens crashing over rocks
Misty droplets drifting.

High above a hawk is calling
Wings spread soaring on the wind
He looks up and watches
Breathing the fresh mountain air
The sweet scent of clarity.

Categories: Poetry

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