The hills are undried, and the ground is sluicy;
it’s anti-antediluvian here.
You will slip and slide, fall down on your booty…
you’ll need ablute your glutes and boots mud-smeared.

You arc for the peak, but the mud is a scourge…
virtual lakes beneath the trees.
You slip on the slime and on the ground you lie,
in the dirt and the leaves.

The path is a brook; in you trip and fall—
oaths are coarse and outré.
Your boots sink from sight;
of the dark mud they have become prey.

I went to the hills thinking I’d be strolling;
instead how I wish I had brought an oar
to paddle through trails that are wet and juicy,
as I sink in more.