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High Peaks Holdfast
I shift my jacket close as wind blows past,
perched upon this dull, gray massif of rock,
below the throaty call of raven’s squawk,
cannot stay long, in Fall the sun won’t last,
cold can make a man run out of gas,
but rolling vistas make a soul take stock,
ridge upon ridge, all view of cities blocked,
shut right out in my stark, high peaks holdfast.
Copyright ©
David Welch
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