| The hills show brown |
| and green spines |
| pockets of dull yellow |
| cling to the last rays |
| I am cutting a bond |
| with the Long Trail |
| A brief relationship, |
| three weeks |
| solitude and people |
| interwining for magic |
| the footpath sucks everyone |
| and foolish ideals into mud |
| It crooks the back, |
| the joints, the feet, |
| Emblazoned in the mind |
| of every wandering soul, |
| A vision of nature. |
|
-
Ned Green
|
