The red squirrel was following its' nut,
Hard to follow in the blistering heat,
A sign of the times, in which it saw,
Falling off the base of the tree,
Cancelling its drive for more of the same,
The telephone pole was in its's way,
Again, it thought in glee,
Time to borrow the limb next door,
They will not mind one bit,
As long as the cat does not watch me take it with me,
The weird part is no one will care,
I wonder if the tree will mind,
Random thought again fellas,
Rationing his twisted ideas was all part of the plans.
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The Spring
The sun was high when Lance pulled off the road and into the dusty lot of the service station. The sign back at the hairpin--the first sign in a long time--said they just rolled into Hatter’s Creek, Population 63. It was small enough it didn’t appear on the handmap in Shelby’s lap, yet here it stood, the first backwater township on the fringes of the National Park. The plan was to gas up, restock the snack bag, and press on into the wilderness.
By Zack Graham4 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Hehe it was a nice poem. I liked the flow.