Trout stream high in the Rockies,
Campfire smoke in my eyes;
Sweet smell of pine on a morning breeze,
freedom, the far greatest prize.
Escape from the noise of the city,
Hike up to where heavens prevail;
Blue sky and clouds form a ceiling,
A walking stick as a handrail.
Unfettered of time clock and traffic,
Sworn to no boss on the trail;
Nothing but pure mountain pleasure,
No telephone, TV or mail.
Birds sing of ages forgotten,
When time moved just inches each day;
Wildlife smiles from the forest walls,
All living the natural way.
Lord, let this place ever be sacred,
No highways, no houses, no strife;
A place to commune in the spirit,
When at last we depart this brief life.
lamebull, '09
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