The Sentinel by Robert Jennings

The Sentinel

On the chasms edge, an ancient, twisted pine
digs sinewy root toes into granite crevices,
bends with the constant wind
and waves silent needled fingers at floating vultures.
With each gust it tosses a good luck cone into the abyss
and wishes for a warm spring updraft
as it soaks up satisfying snowmelt.


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