I travel in the footsteps
Of Walt Whitman
Though he never set a foot
Upon this ground
Hiking through the hills
And silent woodland
Whispered poems in my head
The only sound

I scramble up the Cliff Face
Of Bon Echo
I am seeing things that
Whitman never saw
I write of all
That Whitman has not written
Of the vistas on
The Lake of Mazinaw

A thousand year old cedar
In my vision
A wolf, a bear
A falcon overhead
A lonely sounding loon call
In the evening
As I finally lay
And rest my weary head