The Call Of The Wild

The call of the wild is the voice of friend,

carried on the whisper of wind as it flows,

with the pine needles of the northern forest,

among the the ridges and the valleys,

pausing here and there and back again,

to admire the sights of the woods,

The water in the well and the drops of dew on the morning grass,

the storm as it rolls in letting drops of rain to fall,

wet leaves on the dirty ground,

the gentle lullaby as the lake laps against the shore,

and the sound the river makes as it flows from the forest core,

It’s the gentle hymn of the grasses swaying in the summer days,

the wind whipping through the trees,

the call of loons on the water at night,

and above all its the voice you hear the first time you wake up under the sky,

It’s the touch of the dirt, soft in the summer,

frozen hard in winter,

the mud on boots as you walk from there to here,

the dirt under your fingernails that lets you know you’re home,

And it’s the crackle of the bonfire,

the clink of glasses and the sight the next morning,

when empty chairs sit around a burnt out pit,

like ghosts gone camping,

and the smell of campfires on your clothes for a week afterward,

It’s sitting outside on a moonless night,

when you can hear the subtle notes of a country song,

from someone’s radio a mile away,

but you sit with your back against a tree,

looking up at the sky,

wondering why,

and staring at the stars burning a million,

miles a way,

You can hear it in the dark.

the call of the wild, and the whispering wind,

you can hear it,

because it’s calling your name.