Not Just Music (Soothes the Savage Breast)...

A Night Afield
     and Off-Grid
     at half past
The Witching Hour
     when Night will not get colder:
     in a way, Day has begun,
     though Birds have not yet sung,
     just Wind and in the distance
     the somehow soothing sound
     of tires on asphalt,
     of Waves landing
     on an unseen beach;
     Ah, sometimes it's as if
     I've drank some Magic Potion
     or chewed on Mystical
     and familiar roots...
Take me back
     to the Time
     that was never mine;
     to the Days
     and the Ways
     I long to live;
     give me a quiver of arrows,
     a bow,
     a sling shot,
     a good knife,
     a hatchet
     and a winter bed roll
     and by sundown
     camp will be ready;
     I'll try to have squirrel roasting,
     bring red wine...
             Jan. 5, 2015