The summer’s trail swings low and then high,
The Milky Way may be but a path to hell,
Among enemies, naysayers, annum trevails by and by,
Even as many remain who yet wish us well.
Grand Sol beats down on pines, fields of green,
The hills doth make haste to respond,
All while mysteries flutter becloaked yet are seen,
Perhaps darting among the fernéd frond.
The walk a-winds a Germany we surely never knew,
Some intersectionality of Bard and of Hesse,
To the mountain, to rise and descend, was all we would do,
On the way to an America we surely knew less.