From the poem, “Dreaded Bear Ridge” 
 

Despite those vicious rumors to the contrary, I do not take images of different animals’ steaming piles of fresh excrement, with its attended flies all in a frenzy, like they’ve just won the lottery, and are so excited that they want to land on your face and tell you about it, that we all have to slog our way through, often times parting them with our boots like God parted the Red Sea!

From the poem, “Dreaded Bear Ridge” 

After a bit, you cross a small stream where last time I saw two butterflies having, well, er . . ., engaged in, well, er . . ., let me just write, so I don’t offend any of my reader’s, or my own, sensibilities, mutually satisfying pleasure (if you know what I mean!) and in a most unique way, not that I stopped and watched and even took an image of them, no, I would never do that!