The Moving Road
Oh, that moving road of water we know as the river,
it can be a reflecting mirror where birds glide and feed;
or swirling on polished rocks where frogs whistle, sing and trill,
and ancient trees with roots like tentacles reach for a drink.
Unheard, unseen, below the fish struggle just to survive.
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November 16, 2016
Poetry/Verse/The Moving Road
Copyright Protected, ID 16-850-696-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, River Line
sponsor, Rick Parise
Tenth Place
Copyright © Constance La France | Year Posted 2016
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