There is an unmarked road the begins

just outside your door and to the left.

It is hidden beneath the ferns and grasses,

there–beneath that shady copse,

just beyond that little fence.

Follow it and you will find,

wildberries–

ripe with springtime! Take a few,

they are delicious and warm.

But don’t stay too long–

there is so much left to see,

you must pick your way down

to the winding stream,

where the minnows are still playing,

and get your socks wet,

Then, you must lay them out to dry

on sunbaked stones that dust the skirts

of the mighty mountain before you.

The mountain has a thousand paths,

and you are on one of them.

You are one of them.

The path will take you,

with every wild step,

closer to heart of the throbbing forest,

where the owl and the sparrow,

the fox and rabbit,

the bear and salmon,

the wolf and the deer,

are still living, still dying,

still dancing, even after all these years.

How marvelous.

Listen to them call and answer,

find their tracks in the rain-soaked sand,

let them lead you, for a time,

but then return to your own path–

one foot at a time.

And, when, at last the rarified air of the summit,

chills your lungs and pushes you,

right to the edge of steepest cliff,

Look down, and then,

look up.

Eagle is waiting,

for you to spread your wings,

and join her.

So you do,

and you soar–oh how you soar!

Time dissolves like the clouds,

and you see clearly

how everything below you

is singing to you,

running with you,

holding you.

So, when Sun begins to lumber back towards horizon,

and Moon unfolds her silver petals,

you let Eagles carve a new path through the starlight,

and deliver you safely,

home again,

but no–that’s not right.

Because this abode is not your only home–

it’s just the place you’ll sleep tonight.