she sat in her bulldog
cloud of black
a turgid fist primed
to flash a fast smack,
a work of nature
we’d best track
remember to not turn
our backs
while she guards
her earth
packs a whollop
she’s an angry dog
so alone
in her growl
and snarl
her grueling day
at its deserted
edge where
bicuspids like
butcher knives
blind and threaten
to rip and tear
the lone hiker
whose only crime
is a wish
for adventure
in the strong
safe arms
of mother nature
she lives emboldened
in her barren anomie
and everyone's an enemy
at a dried and bouldered
end of this washboard
road where no one
dares to play
or display
a simple
smile.
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