Wild

What is it that whispers out of the wild for us to follow? What are we that we listen? If there was an ideal, beyond the special significance that LAND has for us (that dark, loamy stuff of legend, the bones of the tribe, soul of our children's, children's, children made flesh on the sloping high hill of a mountainside), we are fast approaching it.

We are the wild. It grows in us in riots and gouts and runners, the feel of home. And Home is Tribe. Home is the loud, laughing, barking mad run of you all, digging into each others business with more flare and deception than a village full of fishwives and cunning men.

How could we ever have wondered that the LAND would be so great in the tides of mystery? Like with like, and two by two. Were we ever wild enough for the Land? Are we even now? Did we ever ask any questions beyond our own desires to manifest what we have decided to require for ourselves?

But the land is manifesting something as well, and we must be ready to meet it...

Roan