with a gentle, mountain
song - one from the
meadows of morning -
Copeland’s Appalachian Spring.
Watered with a fine
and molecular water
splashed from a rising
Rainbow taking to
the horizoned moon -
fly just hanging on
the lip.
Nursed on routine
mouthfuls of an IPA
with aromatic hints
of an oaky bourbon.
Chest deep in waters
with no fish on,
only one perfect cast
following after another;
and the smell of a
wood fire on the wind.
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