Simply strike camp.
Kick dust across the dying fire
Hoist the pack.
Ignore the map
Head in the direction of sunrise.
These are days when the ordinary things are signs of hope.
And so all life is stirring
Days when parched mouths are sated,
Even the driest.
Days of stumbling over the first obstacle
And thinking this tells the rest of the story
Days to regret leaving home
Though that primal call stills echoes in muscle and breath
Days when we are met
By a strangers gaze that tears the roof off the sky