He is of the North, and

prays in the way of

water and fire, elements of

journey, paddling through

an expanse of wild vanquish,

ravaged by love unrequited,

on voyage many years,

passage and portage, the

depths on one side,

the forest on the other,

a darkening mystery

below and above. Each

offer their bounty to the

North man for body and spirit

to subsume in creaturely endurance

and in the broader narrative; bestowments

of the wild God. He lies fireside alone

out under the stars

and near to his thoughts

on the suffering of the world,

his loneliness, and the

common yearning found in all

creation for some sense of

consummation that is always yet ahead,

not fully known, the great hunger

shared by all in striving forward

for survival or significance. No one

rests but for the dead.

He dreams of returning

home, taking his woman into his

arms, drawing her alongside his

desires by the small of her strong

back, waiting for her to sense

her yes to him, her wanting him

as much. For now, he might

be more starbound than within her, for

he has been lost to himself for so long.

In the dawn, he eats his fish and

wild mushrooms, blueberries

on his oats, chased down by black coffee.

He reads his Jeffers as clear as a man

ever could and aches for the

despair of it. In setting off

with the new day,

in faith that knows

nothing, he has the water and

the fire, and for now

he can only be sure

he is being led.

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