Cry of the Wood
by Marcus Draik

Toward his shack in the wood he draws
Dragging his feet and bottle,
His creaky bones to his chair
Gazing at the ragged-haired trees
Playing at the strum of the hills
With a vague rotten smile
At the smell of the smoke and wood
A feeling pervades a place
And suckles the living
Born of the northern woods
Sheltered in their wooden corpses
Joining in the lonesome outpour
In the wail of the trees