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I am at a place where the hawks and vultures
Circle on thermals well below me. I hear the sound
Of their wings through the air. I see the horizon fifty,
A hundred, miles away, the mountainous ridges
Becoming bluer and bluer, fainter and fainter,
As they recede, and I feel a sense of serenity
Almost unknown to me. They call this place Arkansas.
I don't know the meaning of the word,
I'm not sure I want to know. I am on a mountain
Named by french explorers Mount Magazine.
I arrived a day ago, I will leave in the morning.
I will leave the serenity behind, but I'll remember
That it's here, and maybe someday return
And enjoy it again, for a day, or maybe two.
Poetry by jim
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Written on 2015-05-03 at 00:16
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