I'm out of touch with some of the details that previously would consume me with resentment for the abomination known as Man.
I'm broken and slowly finding the pieces of my new transformation and identity to weld back together. Poems whistle through spruce twigs and finally the old foliage has fallen away and perhaps a new spring will replenish the nutrients diminished in the desert. The caribou herd is lost.
The wolf is the sentinel of man. Be brave. Walk proud. Think for yourself and see with your own eyes. This is a natural state for humans except when the media war begins on their young minds and wins by triumphing over their nature in stages of abuse conspiring with the weak parents who are defeated by upward mobility and plantation owner mentaility.
I have hunted for my home like a lonely humpback whale whose flippers are marred by coral reefs. Self imposed exile from the world may be my path. A 19th century salt cod village happens to be my oasis. I'm shit out of luck, you say? No, because one still exists at Battle Harbour. The loathsome 20th century passed this place by but the Petermann Ice Island made a visit with many