When the wolves lure me outside 　
　
　 with hymns to meat and moon - 　
　
When the great gray owl in the pine 　
　
　 asks who with his curious song - 　
　
　　 my spirit dances. 　
　
　
I know not who wrote the grand 　
　
　 symphony, but when the loon adorns 　
　
　 the sun that sets so gently into clear 　
　
　 waters with an answer to my flute - 　
　
　　　larger questions ignite me. 　
　
　
The capelin voices of a thousand 　
　
　 tree frogs play the chorus of spring 　
　
　 to the echo of the first nation's 　
　
　 ghost drums, as if the twittering 　
　
　 woodcock need the beat 　
　
　　 to describe endless circles. 　
　
　
Cicadas drone the heady elixir of 　
　
　 summer to imagined rhythms of corn 　
　
　 that grows inches overnight, the murmur 　
　
　 of the creek knows the sound of 　
　
　 clearer waters, bound by gravity 　
　
　 to flow south with the geese, those 　
　
　 Troubadours of autumn. 　
　
　
　 These are the songs that know me...