Swinging


Biff and Bill celebrate on the Nashwaak

I dream each time I swing my stick
it whispers softly at the tip
singing in a sylvan tongue
sweet as summerís evensong.

I roll my wrists in rythmic twists,
curl, turn and twirl,
as wavelets roll to sandbar trysts,
swirl, turn, unfurl.

Shifting, spinning endlessly,
in glowing gossamer light
as the sun slips to the sea
and draws its quilts of night.

 Nanook of the Nashwaak 
 Reach out and touch a rock 


Jean poles with a smile

Alder Green

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