The Other Way

Late winter storms raging,
the prairie was white; down hill
sleet blowing in my face.

Found a trail, zomies
loves trails in this forest, shadows
filtering the light.

I made it passed
the zombies, to this river — heads
bobbed into each other.

Dead men don’t need rafts;
floating passed, thinking about
all those moms and dads;

stripped away my gear, took to
the raft center, thinking.

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