11

Looms large, emerald green
at the west edge of town
the Blue Rock Forest
breathes.

Centuries of twisted limbs
reach down sly, slow
to caress
the town’s children.

At silver eveningtide
forest wails low
through ancient roots
for the moon.

Horses tell the tale
when they rear and plunge
no entry, stay back!
from the forest’s dusky hall.

– Paint