3rd Stanza - Ben LaMar Gay

The morning mist lays heavy on our fugitive like a wet quilt

He slices through the fog occasionally

Picking it from his skin as if it were cobwebs

Trying to slow him down attempting to take the bounty on his head

With every slip, trip, and fall

His clothes are looking more like the earth that he wanders

They say a man slowly becomes the forest with every lost step

Distant barks of dogs being carried by the damp Tennessee wind

Seem to get closer with every squish of mud

With every snap of twig

With every pant and drop of sweat

He can smell the blood of the warden

Our fugitive runs faster