The crashing tides,

The howling winds,

The calling birds,

The crunching leaves,

Is what I hear.

The dancing trees,

My flowing hair,

The yellowing grass,

 The prancing deer,

Is that of which I see.

The bark of trees,

The flannel of my sweater,

The cold brush of the winds,

Are all the things I feel.

The darkening sky,

The colorful clouds,

The setting sun,

Are those of which I wish to run into.

My arms flung wide,

Running, running, running,

And whirling, whirling, whirling,

'Till my home is far behind,

And the sunset now my enshrined.