Saturday, December 14, 2013

Morning Rise

More than a subtle tickle
across the rise of the hill,
The breath of God whispering
His cold wintry chill.

No flicker of firelight
Dancing in the center of camp,
The night sky still blackened,
The cold ground still damp.

The press of the tent walls
Beat by his head,
The daylight yet breaking
In tomb laying dead.

A beam of distant light
Flirts in and out of trees,
Campers begin to rise,
Voices flit over breeze.

The restless night is now over,
The ground mocks the back,
Three miles crossing rivers
And mud with the pack.

Nothing at the destination
Unveils itself in dim light,
It is the journey with friends
Sharing all heart, mind and might.

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