On the golf course at dawn:
No one but groundskeepers raking bunkers
and red-orange fox fur
reflecting a crystal sun.
Dew dresses the greens.
After my ball glides past a hole,
Marking its path through the dew.
I am crisp and content in this
quiet, more than decent life.
More poetry can be read at http://www.authorsden.com/michaelkozubek
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