Walking Poem Poem by Quinn Graw

The wind is cold
traffic drives by on the highway
one wanders on the trail
softly stepping on old and new grass
contemplating...
the existence of rotting red granaries
final etches of our pioneer days crumbling down
comfortable on the well beaten path
tossing a dead tree and branches
over the almost invisible fence
noticing the ant hill beside me.
The current breeze ebbs and flows
the red and white boundary posts are on my left.
Vitality lives in the forest
coming now to the end of the trail
one cannot turn back
the winds of history.
Change comes
adapt or be undone
the walking poem is done
can exercise be fun?
Mind exercises can do no harm.