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Indian Summer
by Deborah Russell

Color lingers
on the highest peak -
the sunís muffled tones
a whisper
of yellow, leaves; dry and crisp
beneath my moccasins
The Mountain
with distant sound
a waterfall that trickles
down, and further down
the unseen path
I climb, ever higher
Concerns, like rocks
are crushed
to pebble and stone ,,,
Here I am -
and everywhere -
Sage and lichen
at my feet -
infinity over my head
like a red hawk
its silent path is alive
and sacred in this place
This is an Indian summer
November, marked
by this unremarkable
time and space



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