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.