I am like Thoreau.
These woods are my home.
But I’m not as wise as I suspect I am.
God knows how pride will get the best of a man.
I am a squatter in the Promised Land.
My independence is a quail shot low.
In escaping through the window,
she greets the hunter’s arrow as she goes.
I have seen the end, and it’s a pretty thing.
Everything is dead or is dying on its knees.
The Great Confession is at hand, and now we see
the works of man amount to nothing and everything.
Our days are numbered like the open road.
The damnsday book has been signed and closed.
The seed is dead, and now the tree will grow.
I am like Thoreau.
These woods are my home.
But I’m not as wise as I suspect I am.
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