Poetry class #10

STAMPEDE

The green hills are
Yellow-licked
With new mustard.
Bees and butterflies
Flirt with flowers.
A flock of clouds
Wind and gust across the sky.
Hawks, like siblings,
Play tag to fill a summer sky.
But I . . .

I am encased
In metal and leather.
I stampede ahead
With all the rest,
Racing forward
As if there were a finish line.


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