[38] Turning Home, Tom Laughlin

These hills have echoed in my ears
for decades
boulder-flecked peaks rattling my windy thoughts
treed birds chirping me higher

I have smelled these fields through my shoulders
wherever I pause
sun-drenched blades rippling for wind,
rasping every movement
tickling my muscles with hot greenness

These horses have grazed my chest
—even now, through frosted-crisp December air
tails waving hypnotic symphonies
nostril snorts filling my lungs

This lake has burrowed into my bones
lapping steadily under skin
sky reflecting through turtled fingers
swallowing my muddy darkness

These woods have crackled my feet
at every step
oaked messages whispering into soles
hidden twigs laughing between toes
pine tops sprouting through my skull

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