Running The Laurels

Taken by the trails,
Wet leaves covering mounds of horse poop,
Rocks settled in the peet,
Smelly, but sound footing, nonetheless.
Weak winds blew a teasing wind,
Just enough for the climate deniers,
Certainly, they can’t believe a real winter is coming.

Each step was beautiful,
The agony of the hills,
The picturesque run up to the creek,
The Rockwell shuffle through covered bridges.
Alas, there was a heavy sweat on my brow,
A sure sign that it was too hot for this late date,
Take that climaticians.

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