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Highland Road
by Michael Escoubas

Having left the city,
with its blare of horns
and streak-a-lightin' cars
its tall buildings
that shine in steel and glass
without arms
without face
filled with people—
a teeming mass
sucking in so much air,

I'm on the Highland Road,
the air is sweet with autumn smells.
My boots collect a cake of mud
a burning maple sighs
as I go by, harvest-ready
wheat lets go its fragrance,
a spider's web spreads its net
on a branch of pine
the distant hills call me on and on—
my step is light, my breath, deep and free.

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