If I become old I want to grow my hair long and throw away my shoes
Drop my clothes and my language, come home to the mountains.
I’ll slowly walk the creeks with whatever dogs will follow
We’ll scratch the sand together on the river bends
And howl like ragged droves of the north when we please.
We don’t want any, thank you.
We want the mountain tops, the berry patches, the morning sun.
The elk, the deer, the meadow flush, the wind in the pines.
The edges of winter slowly shearing fall from the aspens.
The listless cutthroat slowly wagging in a pool clearer than a babies eyes.
When I grow tired I’ll sleep on the river bank
And wait for the winter rise to take me home.
Past the breakers and the trollers
past the fire islands and the monsters at The End.
Over the map’s edge to the world I won’t pretend to know
And I’ll see these words from below and howl them anew,
running again under a blood moon.