Stone In the Cold-3

I face the final test of nature's truth. The nights coming fast, I travel unheard. The reverence I feel, was born in my youth, tempered by sage, burnt offerings for birds. Tormented by brambles whose thorns I collect I come to remains of struggles long gone, feathers and crushed bone, on these I reflect. I'm hoping once more, my arms are still strong. A pine marten scurries, close to my step, the sweet scent of birch gum, his claws unearth. My arrow's still sheathed, for creeks I have leapt. Though I grow cold, my spirit is re-birthed. Tracks at the creek, the water I savor the thicket moves, my aim must not waver. 01/25/14