The Lake and The Swan

I remember sitting up on the hill,
A cool breeze, wet as the lake below,
Gently caresses the sage and yellow
around me.


My father stands, below,
I cautiously watch them.
Talking, and Pointing around the valley.
Fathers Camping Day*


They saw me standing up there. Lol
Moving in between sage brush,
Placing a small foot on white and black speckled stones.


One father was a hunter,
Whom collected deer skulls.


The valley moaned for me.
They listened.
Not so much to the test,
Of their own heart, or breath.


But to the movement of my blood.


My confusion…


“Come on, we’re going now!” They wave me with some fury,
Which is really soft, I swear.
As the down of little ducks.


Whom are following mother.
Whom are collecting deer skulls.
As a test, to their own hearts.

My confusion.

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