The Wild Places

I woke up about three am this morning with this in mind. No idea where it came from.

I want to go to the wild places
Beyond the end of the road.

I want to feel the cold wind on my face like brook water.
I want to wash my mouth out in a mountain spring and drink deep.
I want to smell a wood fire in winter.
I want my legs to hurt and quiver from the climb up the trail to Old Smoky.

I want to go to the wild places
Beyond the end of the road.

I want to feel the panting and the sweat and the bugs and the bitter taste of insect repellent that Mother would anoint us with.
I want to breathe deep until my lungs ache.
I want pain to be earned and not just received.

I want to go to the wild places
beyond the end of the road.