What is real Wilderness like?

Sorry I didn't say much at the diner over the rocks
The wait was awkward and it was much too early
I was thinking bout nothing and trying to focus--
I've been reading volumes of hocus-pocus, lately,
reversin' the high tide that's comin' up to hit me.

Now that Gods are people and we're all equals--
I talk to petunias and squirrels and turtles and beetles.
I love each of those little moments
like when I read baller novels
for which the author wrote infinite sequels.

Some say that people have no equals.
That oaks are weeds and field mice scat on tables
But, what people can stay still for 40 years?
I've have seen people that can pound like 40 beers.
That's impressive, their stomachs must be massive.

What is real Wilderness like?

You were the one who felt that old age carries the curse of wisdom:
An un-relayed loss like the trees screaming in the forest and no one to hear them.
Anyway, Happy Belated Birthday, Grand Cousin.

You settled with the past in a very special way.
Your eyes are opaque and gray as coldest ice.
Your wrinkles are seared and your beard grows nice
I was sold when you spoke low and gently like a sleeping giant,
Your fingers are weathered like Alaskan oil pipes.
Tell me: What is real Wilderness like?

Can you stand under the sky and breathe easy?
Is it joyous and gay or vicious and unyielding?
Have you seen waves crash over the gray, mostly glass buildings?
For some reason, they make the most morbid sounds
but that's just the inertial shifting of oily plates, underground.