3rd Stanza

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