North Fork Special: A poem collection

By: Gabe Bree, Equus Editor

Autumn Archer

The days are still long.

As the grass begins to yellow.

And the herds move along.

Then the wind begins to bellow.

The archer becomes a drifter.

As the hills and trees cease to differ.

From blade to fletching, and dawn to dusk.

The bugles echo with a tone of brusque.

Warm days and cold nights.

All without the help of any lights.

The Bird Peak

At the end of Pagoda.

Beyond Cougar Creek.

Surrounded by grass, the color of Yoda.

With a name that begins with a beak.

At twelve thousand and twenty-one.

The fun has only begun.

Not so far below, there is a hardpan.

To get there, it takes a hard man.

On a flat plateau.

Watch out, elevation might not be your only foe.