25 miles north of Newfound Gap
in the mountains of Tennessee
along the Appalachian Trail
Steve and I find a place to rest.
an isolated camp site
with a breathtaking view.
without an agenda,
without time pressure,
we sit quietly on a fallen tree
eating slowly, savoring
tiny slivers of a red apple.
the trees are
glorious dappled patches
of bright purple, silver, pink,
gray, yellow, tangerine
snuggling with every shade of green.
no civilization in sight or sound.
as the humid evening cool
descends into the valley
we look down on clouds
and know we’ve seen the essence
of the Smokey mountains
and felt the ultimate escape
from the civilized rat race.
I daydream of Daniel Boone
who crossed this trail with
the fifteen families who settled
the Missouri Territory one year
after the Louisiana Purchase
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at Johnson’s Shut-ins State Park
a crystal clear mountain stream loudly
cavorts and tumbles over
house-sized boulders
and through slick, centuries-worn
narrow sloughs and slides
I sit alone drinking in the
hillside tree’s bright yellows and oranges
of an early fall day in the sun
in Missouri
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descending from rabbit ears pass
above Steamboat Springs Colorado
I pull over to the look-out point
I will use to launch my cross-country skis
later in the winter
the scrub oaks
just below the tree line
add touches of yellow
to the windswept tall pines.
the gray and brown fractured
weather rock bluff and
the pure cold white
patches of fresh fallen early snow
are solid contrast to the liquid cold air
filling my lungs through smiling lips
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I sit on the natural stone jetty
south of Carmel by the Sea, California,
my backpack at my feet
near a gnarled and
salt sea wind-shaped hardy tree and
admire jade plant patches
sporting the bright yellow and red colors
signifying that carotin is displacing and flushing
out the plants to begin a short dormant period.
nearby, the straw-thin natural brown and yellow
native grasses anchoring and protecting
the sand from the cantankerous ocean
add color, contrast and beauty
the coast is beautiful this time of year
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five of my grandchildren
laugh and leap through
the pumpkin farm field
shouting “Here’s one!”
Here’s one!” “This one’s mine!”
the adults try to discourage the big ones
not wanting to carry them
back to the waiting hay wagon.
feet dangling over the side of the wagon
bouncing along the fine dusty road
the huffing sound and oil smell of the old tractor
in the air, prickly hay bail at my back
and one arm around my precious
exhausted, youngest as her head falls
forward in exhausted happy waves of sleep.
her arms never lose grip on the
small, perfect orange pumpkin sitting
on her dusty cotton summer dress lap
with her tiny kissable bare knees
soaking in the late evening sun
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I’ve etched these pictures in memory
for recall on dreary days