To mark my eighteenth year I climb high up the Cheviot trail, Below me I leave the curlew's plaintive call And reach with envy to emulate Swift peregrine's searching swoop. Suddenly, beyond a rock she is there, This unexpected female walker. Resentment at her intrusion on my solitude, Is soon tempered by hips Swaying as though to marimba beat. Buttocks tight in denim shorts Twitch,
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