My feet tease the path
as I dare to venture
deeper into my own
simple pleasures.

Beckoning to the trees
to sing the melodies
of our tired ancestors
as the wind flows through their leaves
like fingers over a harp's strings.

The hawk dances with the shadows,
daring the sun's rays to cut in,
hand outstretched, shinning and asking
may I have this dance?

The owls hoot the language
of muzzled tribes.
Low and deep,
filling the forest with the vibrations
of forgotten souls.

And as the world calls,
the armadillo crosses my path.
It follows me to the ledge.
It offers me it's armor
and pushes me off the edge.