Every time the turkey dropped a feather from its tail
Big Jim collected it to make a headdress for the trail.
A lonely pathway he had cut through saplings, brush, and vines,
Which rolled around the countryside in undulating lines.
He had no pony, but he kept a spotted sturdy goat
Which followed him in pack gear with his stove and tent in tote.
Round and round he wandered on the acreage of his farm,
A pioneering image with a rifle on his arm.
In deerskin and in denim though the air of autumn chilled
He trampled ever on where his imagination willed.
Some may have thought him crazy but in that they could be wrong;
Each one of us is wandering to find where we belong.