Winter Wind

The winter wind curls before it blows.

Where it is, that is where I'll go.

I'll follow the Northern lights--

the trails dogs and men alike have traveled--

stay beneath the stars with the wolves at my feet,

and the whistle will be blowing through the leaves

like a trumpet part of a symphony.

Author's Note

I read Gary Paulsen's Woodsong again (loved the book as a child), and this was inspired by the atmosphere of it all.

Reviews

[Rita L. Sev]

I like the images you paint here; an atmospheric and philosophical piece of pondering. Well penned!

[River Goats]

Thank you for reading my poem and for the nice comments as well. :)
I'm glad you say it painted some images, that was my goal.