A quiet call born of wind
the rustling needles sound,
a hard chair of stony set
cooler than dirty ground.
A raven’s throaty call is head
and endless birdy chirps,
beyond that silence evermore
so much better than work…
Below a shepherd’s happy bark
faint echoes made of words,
illusions broken instantly
by another of the world.
But frustrated I cannot be
‘cause who am I to blame,
another who will seek the wild
in order to be sane.