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Ohio Woods

Updated on February 4, 2016

In that cold, wet fog,

The Hawthorne trees extend their thorns

And Osage oranges roll around.

I walked to this hill's top, and now

My path continues slowly down,

As I behold just nothing through

This fog, no strangers and no beasts.

In that cold, wet fog,

The gray light and the fog obscure

My path, but I continue down.

The creek will be upon my right,

The road will be in front. Just now

I have seen nothing, not the bike

Tire that did move before, just there.

It slid into the creek before,

But if this fog is cold enough,

It sleeps now curled up in a den.

And I continue down the path

In fog. I see there's nothing there.

And now the fog clears; it is damp.

I cross the road to see what's there.

The ground is flat, the many trees,

Small forest I am walking through

Will yield up something on the way

Or not--it all depends--proceed.

Just there, above my head, I hear

Behind me such a sound. The branch

Held something now apparently

In flight--it's flying over me,

A bomb with slowly flapping wings.

It will remain in flight, I think.

It slowly flies away, I'm sure.

But what it was--perhaps an owl.

Bald eagles could not be so round.

Did it choose not to turn on me?

It left me here--I ponder that.

While walking back toward the path,

I cannot see another one.

God put the fear of us upon

These creatures--Look, they slide or fly

Away. And I continue down

The path--perhaps I will return



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