No worn path home,
we make circles
following the seasons
in the shadow of the moon—
to the coyote’s yip
and canyon conflagration
finding perfect pitch
to make a chorus.
Our dreams are wild
enough to need
no fuel, no accolades
to draw a crowd
any closer. We pick
our way, break no stems
on the eternal scent
of heading home.
Seem to be back on your feed. Nice
JEG
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Absolutely beautiful, John.
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Thanks, Louise.
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