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To the edge of the ancient Woodland

He followed a well worn path

Carved by many moccasins

Of warriors, hunters, and sons.

The Woodland held many secrets

And legends of days gone by

The sounds of which could still be heard

From the virgin forest floor.

The Woodland revealed

No clear, clean path

As he paused at its towering rim

And he listened to its Spirits

In the leaves, the soil, and the wood.

The Spirit of each hollow tree

Thundered in a beat of a drum

And the young native boy

As his Grandfather taught him

Silenced them one by one.

The Spirit of an old Cypress

Resonated stronger then the rest

And the Spirit of the young native

Cried out in a spiritual dance.

Michael R. Pierite and Jean-Luc Pierite.