Ringer, Northwoods Campfire, 2011
I felt its urgent demand in the blood. I could hear its
call. It's whistling disturbed me by day and its howl woke me in the night. I
heard the drum of the sun. Every path was a calling cadence, the flight of every
bird a beckoning, the color of ice an invitation: com. The forest was a fiddler, wickedly
good, eyes intense and shining with a fast dance. Every leaf in every breeze was a toe tapping out of the same
rhythm and every mountaintop lifting out of cloud intrigued my mind, for the
wind at the peaks was the flautist, licking his lips, dangerously mesmerizing
me with almost inaudible melodies that I strained to hear, my ears yearning for
the horizon of sound. This was the calling, the vehement, irresistible demand
of the feral angel -– take flight.
All that is wild is winged – life, mind, and language – and knows the
feel of air in the soaring “flight, silhouetted in the primal.”
Jay Griffiths, from Wild
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