We three walking sticks on a hike;
an adventure stepped in awe
with an absence of our usual chatter
in the thick of the woods.
At the bend where we paused,
canopied above us,
golden-green leaves through the trees
spoke softly in slight waves.
As we trekked on high toward the river bluff,
the morning dew was fresh
upon the leaf strewn path
of the woodsy causeway;
our newly trodden bridge
across imaginary forest tributaries
reaching us from the Mighty Mississippi.
Schools of may-apples lapped at our feet.
Dogwood blossoms appeared in the distance,
as if they were white tugboats ahead,
finding their horizon.
Poplars standing tall, like river boat captains
at attention, leading the watery way.
There was a reverence in our step,
but never mistake the song of glee
in the hearts of adventurous souls,
as were we, the three walking sticks on a hike.
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