Piercing stillness
	an ache for a landscape
	of fresh carpeted snow . . .

It Is Here My Dreams of Wolves Persist.

Land of virgin
	terrain, unkind to Man,
	haven to
	all things free and Wild.

It Is Here My Heart Beats in Unison.

I become all vapor
	of staggering Enchantment -
each
	fiber of my being alert
	with stalking Perception.

I feel at home with
	the transient dimensions of Nature, untouched
in breathless
	miles of hushed revibrance. . .

Alive only
	when the Forest
	Echoes its rare gift of mysteries unveiled -

For It Is Here My Dreams of Wolves Persist.

WHAT'S LEFT OF THEM.