Mountain Buck
Down the slope the buck came, swift and proud,
Bounding sure, as though the hills had bowed—
As if Appalachia were his to ride,
From Katahdin’s heights he leapt with pride.
He urged his pace, for time would not delay,
Steeped in dreams yet bold upon his way.
Still onward moved, without dismay,
Senses keen, heart bright in wild array.
At the hill’s foot, mirrored in the lake,
A drifting isle appeared, then slipped from view—
It glided slow, as if it meant to break
Toward some far shore, then vanished in the blue.
Nearby, the geysers burst in steaming hue—
Hot wells that rise from earth’s deep, burning core,
Their boiling breath both fierce and healing too,
Drawing all to seek their ancient lore—
A gift from time itself, from nature’s endless store.
WoPoLi 
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