the golden grasses,
they are ready to rest, to lay down on
one another, to let the snow fall over them,
a comforter of white.
the path will still be broken in the winter
by the thousands of feet walking
walking, running, hiking, most talking
of nonsense, the same nonsense I hear
in my own head, the words that deny
the overwhelming beauty of this natural
world, the one to pay attention to,
to stop talking, to listen, to see,
to sing.
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