By the River

{a poem}

Just off Route 47,
a grizzled tree has dropped her robe,
exposing the precise shape of her history.

I approach slowly, knowing
my own stories are less visible,
wondering what secrets I’ll someday reveal.

The hawk surveys the river and its banks,
his underbelly sunlit and proud.
You have nothing to hide.

It can be this simple, you know,
loving what is, and learning
from landing and flight.

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