I watched Johnny take out a red handkerchief ~ a parcel in his bloody hand ~ Torn out. Pumping, beating alive held against his heart. Roaring against his own.
'But he had just taken it out from the box ~ how could that be?'
He paced the earth and shook the red cloth open. Nothing inside.
The Beating resounded in the darkness.
The end...or is it?
This was no theatre of escape. Or time for forgetting.
But a daring for intimacy.
Naked, for the wild, for the heart.
"I felt its urgent demand in the blood. I could hear its call. Its whistling disturbed me by day and it's howl woke me in the night. I heard the drum of the sun. Every path was a calling cadence, the flight of every bird a beckoning, the color of ice and invitation: come. The forest was a fiddler, wickedly good, eyes intense and shining with a fast dance. Every leaf in every breeze was a toe tapping out the same rhythm and every mountaintop lifting out of cloud intrigued my mind., for the wind a the peaks was the flautist, licking his lips, dangerously mesmerizing me with inaudible melodies that I strained to hear, my ears yearning for the horizon of sound. This was the calling, the vehement, irresistible demand of the feral angel - take flight. All that is wild is winged - life, mind and language - and knows the feel of air in the soaring "flight, silhouetted in the primal".Wild - Jay Griffiths