This country has trees, not like the flat place
moss across the hills and between the waters
old rivers snaking through the forest
finding the path of least resistance
dark waters have a glitter all their own
not the cheap sparkle of cross-cut canals
slashed through the wilderness to make it more civilized
here the rivers hold secrets
only to be found by those willing to search
winding through the trees
roads are cut into the woods
though the trees try to hide them
scars etched upon the land
their pavement an insult

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