I Find Myself To Be This Longing

I can’t get the moors out of my skin; me the indirect descendant of Jim Bowie, the wild colonial boy now planted like a ‘Wandering Jew’ in a pot, in tame Ohio. Planted in a State where few venture far from their high school roots. The moors grind you into peat and gritstone, They keep walking you around while the open spaces sweep you dry, even in the downpouring sky, even under the bitter grasp of banshee winds. Who could love such as these? Who lament the bone hammering miles trudged between hags and toughs, the flat featureless, rambling, high acres of heather and mist? Yet, I find myself to be this longing, to be this itch to find my own wilderness here in suburbia. Here you may find me strolling along the grassy edges of Mall parking lots, spot my shadow climbing a sunny day; my head bent into an imaginary horizon, eyes following paths that only shaggy sheep can trace.