CHARLES HARMON
No Trespassing
Fences
don’t own the land.
The
land owns you.
Sand
piled against the cliffs
Blows
across the water like mist.
Involved
in sea rock and spray
You
leave your questions with circling gulls.
The
tide comes in as you walk down.
Where
does this stream begin?
Frozen
white mountains rise above the plain.
Water
flows from the edge of snow.
Crashing
waves break on sea cliffs
Where
trees come down.
A
stream is easily polluted while a sea holds more.
Climb
back into the woods.
Ferns
and nettles, pine and wild deer.
A
red tail hawk flies above.
The
hills and mountains that we love
Will
change less even than those who change them.
Three
rides and a walk is home.
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