
Texas Hill Country, on Route 187 heading North, just north of Garner State Park. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The Beckoning Hills of Texas
Hill Country pulls from far and near
A wide array of men,
A magnet drawing visitors
To each tree-stubbled chin.
The bikers come on weekend days
For scenery and thrills,
And when a pack of them drives by,
There’s thunder in the hills.
The cyclists are a quieter crew,
Those oarsmen of the land,
Who row their frailer, thinner skiffs
Beside the wider strand.
And then there are the youth that come,
To camps we count by score,
And frolic by the riverside
Like waves upon a shore.
Those are three tides that ebb and flow,
That flood and then recede.
Of those who wash across the hills,
There’s still another breed.
Because it is a gentler clime
With beauty, views for days,
With deer that dart and dine in yards,
Men come to live and gaze.
They migrate for their winter years,
Like geese go south to sun;
They perch among and on the hills,
Until their time has run.
So, sirens of the Texas hills
Sing sweetly to the soul,
And beckon men to play thereon
Like energetic foal.
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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2013.
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