You can feel them
walking inside your footsteps,
brave warriors who
signaled
the coming tempest,
massacred ‘till the creeks ran red.

The spirit-protectors of the forest remain,
hidden in the very essence surrounding me,
reminding me of the great losses.
There’s nothing like the dew
of the blue ridge, there,
moss-covered granite
creeps into your soul,
along with the natives.