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.




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