As I sit here,

gazing out this old woods road,

covered with four feet of snow,

wishing it was gone,

so I could go,

to that old beaver dam,

and where the red pine trees grow.

In those old pine,

I can listen to the crows,

and hear the splash of the beaver’s tail,

as it gives warning,

to the coming of it’s foes.

I can sit on an old log,

and watch the squirrels,

running to and fro,

and relax for a moment,

where the red pine trees grow.

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