Through the trees,
Skeletal branches scratching at my windowpane.
Listen to the ancient winds,
Telling ancient tales
Through those pines,
Racing through canyons of rock,
That ice-filled wind.
Tales of warm places.
Fire in the wood stove,
Fire in the cave,
Where beings like us,
Yet not like us,
Warmed their hands and hearts.
We too gather around the warmth
A wood stove, a simple shelter.
Knowing, feeling what they once did,
Beings not quite like us.
Sharing their ancient memories
My ancient memory.
Of other beings sharing warmth,
Finding shelter from the cold,
Listening to the tales
The stories the wind is telling.
In the fleeting warmth, be aware
In the distance the wolves are howling.
Dee Lambert, Cazenovia
Secluded rock outcrops such as this one located in a gorge north of the Wisconsin River were often temporary shelters for early inhabitants of the Driftless Area. Photo by Don Greenwood.