Happy to be finally lost here, finally arrived
At wilderness, the wanderer observed
Contentedly it has no end. Now it begins,
The runaway exile with knapsack and kettle
On his back, ready to perish in the trees,
Nothing strange, nothing dreadful about that
Death of a bosky, biting gnat. Something
To gnaw on, the gristle of perspective,
The wanderer thought. And what makes
A wanderer anyway? The amount of travel,
The constant walking, what? I say longing,
Longing makes even the stationary version
Of the indefinite wanderer stray. The trees
Are tall and dark; they pack together
Like herd animals, although it's light, not
Safety they're seeking. The trees are lean
Philosophers contending. The wanderer
Is a firefly, a fairy, a nincompoop, a dream.
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