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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