has his head held high up
in the clouds. He doesn't have humility
like the ones walking on four feet. They don’t
carry a briefcase or phone. They roam

the forest and scrounge the land/not eating
out of someone’s hand. The call of the wild is
the call of the free. The day is young as it
is light. And the night shines bright as the silver

moon. No schedules/plug-in things or
blether. Treading on acorns, leaves and
feathers. The filters are the trees. And the only hot air
is a breeze. They hunt to live/not live to hunt. I’d like
to have my life unrushed and sleep in the brush.