He was raised up literally in this neck of the woods It was as though the damp brush was his carpet n' the towering giants as if holding hands in the sky were his ceiling n' walls So the thought of ever venturing out from the likes of Squamish or treks to Queen Charlotte n' Vancouver Island seemed alien to him yet there was something as if in an encouraging voice somehow made calls Was it the warmer balmy climate of California or perhaps the drawing pull and in a few songs of discovering gold? Could it have been the hearth of desire stirred within-visions of sun drenched scantily clad women decked out with their highrises in the sand that he longed to hold? Oh there were still beauties here with their pasty porcelain skin or the almost exotic Asian look of the Nootka natives But the thought didn't occur to him all that much except in the backburner of his mind he was to be led on a higher trail-of The Most High Who forever lives The more he thought about it the idea excited him to push off from this rainforest n' wind down along the Rockies cross rivers like the mighty Columbia n' Williamette n' over the Siskiyou pass down further past Shasta lake n' it's formidable snow covered mountain To the wide curvy plains of the north then spanning into the warmer wide valley where farmers toiled for water as ironically the San Joaquin aquaduct flowed south through it having been fed by the melt of the Sierra Nevadas causing the snow pack n' fingers of ice clinging to rock side cliffs to flow into a horizontal fountain As if snapped back into the now he looked up from his work n' saw the sort of bluish like coat of the ox with her almost doe like eyes yet still conveying a deep incision He paused for a brief moment then continued reeling back with his axe n' as the blade sunk into the the freshly falled coniferous tree with chunks flying and an aroma that was as his elixir-the wheels were churning but only in realizing he was in the midst of a split decision. 1-28-2017 Duncan R. M. Ferguson