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Will I hear the thudding thunder
of a hundred thousand hooves
when the wind herds race stampeding
across the mountain valleys,
see the aspen and the fir tree
do a rain dance on one foot
as they bow and bend and shimmy
to a pattern each time new,
feel the push of rushing motion
and the smarting skin where tails slap
new stinging into awareness
every straining naked nerve end,
taste the turpentine and sunshine
torn and tossed like drifting dust
swirling aimless tardy motion
in the wake of might vacating,
smell the breath of mountain grazers
while their going gathers lightening
bolts cast by their striking hooves
as they stamp their trail?
Can I reach with a sixth-sense
to arrange the final segment?


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The following comments are for "Wind Herds"
by KateLouise





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