Too tired to walk 
through the cicada bearing bush to the sea, 
which is always roaring.
Sand slows me down. I am caught in the sun’s web
stretched between scraggly branches,
buzzing like a bee.
Somewhere, a mountain pass 
with snow underfoot and fog rolling in,
the wind like needles,
is moot.
Now I am as the trees, rooted,
vexed by the stars, and torn by the sea.
Hi Busker, I trip over the word "somewhere" everytime I read this otherwise very fine poem.  It's such a vague interjection, and the rest of the poem is so concrete.

that's all I got
“All persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.”  Kurt Vonnegut

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