I hear an owl hoot outside my ramshackle tin can,

Frosty March air dulled the night melodies,

Remembrances sway in the night breeze with the rhythm of the trees,

Moments slip through the cracks,

A monotonous clang of metal fills the silent woodland scene,

I began to recoil in horrific convulsions,

Transforming into a twisted wretch with a pale skeletal figure,

Suddenly isolated from the feeding of our Mother,

Choked off and lost in the bowels of human deterioration,

The noise machine faltered in the dark of night,

I found my way back to her;

I rejoiced once again in rapport with Old Mother,

Distant thoroughfares beckoning me back to the material grip,

But I denounce it’s hold,

And embrace the soft touch of the river and trees,

Hoot-hoot, hoot-hoot

Inhale, exhale

Back together again.