The Forest

Spiraling paths, sloping with brush

The tangling weeds, green and lush

In the woods, a bounding hare

Stops and twitches with a keen stare

The crackle and swish of a stream

The sun’s shattering gallant beams

A bristling shiver stirs the leaves

Branches folded in lacy weaves

A sharp arrow, arching, whistles

Through the trees and purple thistles

A wolf falls to the ground to die

Above the forest, a blue sky

 

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