We don’t get much wilderness experience,
Much space to hear our brain wheels turn,
Or memories writhe.
The warm windows of men’s dwellings
Call us back to noise and throng
Where we are hidden in full sight.
Across the meadow the sky is steel,
The water sheet is still,
The birds raise an awful din
That is both beautiful and raw.
Mist rises on Burgess field
As for a short, sharp while
The imagination can paint a picture
Of wandering wilderness
Where you are free to make your own destiny,
To set your face, pursue your way,
Live your life, die your death
And summon the energy
To live a great tomorrow.