Yonder hill along the creek into the realm of twilight

 The other side did call me violently again, and so I packed my gear and followed an ancient trail into the realm of twilight, the ever-growing forest´s shroud. It greeted me with sunlit aisles, and as I leisurely strolled along the path, I heard what I often hear when I leave the roaring world of mankind behind: Five buzzards circled high above and cried their lonesome, eerie cries.

 Over treetops they circled, over the deep crevice of this ancient valley, where once upon a time there roared the smithies. Fallen sullen and silent, the old machines lie rusting in the wold, and death embrothers them to the red-brown mould of fallen leaves.

 One buzzard sat above in the crags and cried and sang to me; and as I passed, it flew along my path for a good while, some 10 m away from me, from time to time perching upon a tree stump. And I looked into the eyes of the bird, and I understood.

 All the while the creek sang its vivid, living, striving song.

 And over old hills I walked, not meeting a soul, but bird and deer kept me company. I found a lot of treasures that day; the skull of a marten, two spades, a nickel silver plate and a piece of horse bone. The spades I left in a cache in the woods...just in case;-).

 I´d love to restore this barn... and live there, by the stream.

 I met with this sleek fish hunter, a cormorant.

 And yonder crags I climbed along the stream into hidden thickets.

 For there it is my soul is soothed; I need these outings to remain sane and true to myself. The folly of the everyday race of life subsides, and in the quiet solitude of the woods I experience sense and purpose that in the hectic of our society goes alack.

 There is a beauty in the silent regard of tree and stone,

 and death and life, and plant and beast, blend into each other. My racing mind is calmed, and I understand without words, where my path is headed.

 I am grateful to be able to pass by the homes of those little inhabitants of the woods without disturbing them, the true rulers of the wild, the gentle servants of the savage grace of the woods.

 And when my roaming draws to a close near the evening, I take home those cherished memories to dwell on them forever.

Legally I am considered poor. But there is a wealth far richer than words can describe, that no banker or tycoon can take from me. The savage grace loves me, and I love her. More there is not to be said, and no worship done would do her justice, and there is no sacrifice that is mine to give. Just my love.