Friday, September 27, 2013


There is peace in this country
Inside the hills and their rain
There is a gentle nudge of tranquility
Yet a stir
Rolling quietly beneath my skin
Streams slip through each town
Becoming rivers, but never raging
Growing wide and white
And fleeting
Disappearing into timber and blue stone
Finding space to hide beneath the weight of this place
To keep moving quietly
To come out the other side as a trickle
A wet stone face on the side of a highway
Something small, swelling
Into river and white water
But never raging

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