Bob Marshall Wilderness, MT (2005)

Thoreau took to the woods for inspiration, peace of mind, and creative expression. Bill Bryson took a “walk in the woods” and wrote all about it. So did Aldo Leopold, John Muir, Teddy Roosevelt, Rachel Carson, and countless others.

And so do some of our volunteers.

Here’s some poetry from one of them, which recounts an experience in Montana’s Bob Marshall Wilderness a few years ago.

Montana’s dusk burns slow.
Light climbs the mountain’s pines
On needle tip toes.
Over trees that sip from storms
That help spring chase summer
Across fall’s leafy floor.
Winter has its snow cap on.
Tents pop up
Like grizzly humps.
The propane tanks hiss.
Montana’s nights cool quick.

‘His mother took him to her breast…’

The black flies hummed along,
And flitted like ash fleeing
Up towards promises of dawn.

Been inspired? Have something to share? Send it in.

(Bonus points to anyone that can name that tune – the one referenced in the title and the second to last stanza.)