Sometimes, when a bird cries out,
Or the wind sweeps through a tree,
Or a dog howls in a far-off farm,
I hold still and listen a long time.

My world turns and goes back to the place
Where, a thousand forgotten years ago,
The bird and the blowing wind
Were like me, and were my brothers.

My soul turns into a tree,
And an animal, and a cloud bank.
Then changed and odd it comes home
And asks me questions. What should I reply?
      - Hermann Hesse

What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime; it is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.
- Last words of Crowfoot, Blackfoot hunter

. . .

Immersed in wild nature, sometimes an ancient voice whispers something indecipherable. But we sense what it means. Or think we do. It means with our incredible technological advances, we’ve lost touch with something important.

. . .

The page above is from the first draft of a new book I’m working on:

Meditations On Nature: The Beauty Of Wild Places