Ragged, rutted roads, slightly more
Than rough-honed gravel paths,
Lead up from valleys deep
And around mountain passes,
Twisting through trees of wilderness.
Like a sheer net of pale blue
Stretched tight overhead,
The sky protects barren peaks
With hazy wisps of thin wool clouds.
Under spreading, swaying limbs
Of spruce, birch, and cottonwoods
Deep pink flowered-teardrops hang
On slender stalks of light green.
The cooling wind sings its melody
Through quivering leaves and grass,
Accompanied by buzzing, biting bugs.
The burning, blistering sun beats
Upon land, plants, and beasts,
Creating an impact for summer's heat
Under the dark shadow of Wishbone Hill.
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