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Wild, Solo, Far from Here

A Poem for Tired Travelers

The mountain lord ascends the slopes, agile as a ram

Fearful as a landslide, springing from the ground

Leaping from the hillside, to peaks, to lower roads

To snowed-in homes

To the hollow of my throat, where the sound resounds

Where the echo resonates through flesh and air and stone

And tremors roam the highways of my being

The path has petered out now, with the sound of passing cars

And nothing mars the silence save the hissing of the wind

Winding up and over through the stillness of the cairns

With no care of my own

Or for myself

I am lost to his land

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Wild, Solo, Far from Here
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