Wild is exuberence -

a creative ignitition of force enabling us to write and paint and concoct troubling metaphors.  Wild is waking in milkweed and heath, far from the riddles of politics or capitalist hubris.

Wild is intoxication.  It’s the safety decleating a wide receiver.  Wild is the moon and the heart of an ewe or the ramshackle line on a fence where the paint blisters .

It’s one side of me.  It’s mountain bike descents through shale in high sierra.  It’s playing flip cup in the backyard on a ping-pong table when an mexican sonata plays and you share a smile with beautiful person.  It’s trains and feral cats and full moons. 

Wild is Townes Van Zandt, it’s discovering rare fernets at old-fashioned bars.  It is a pregnant purple ocean undulating in the silent depth. 

Wild is cellular motion.  Dopamine whirring.  It’s what a leather coat has seen, a fire in the Oregon forest; or hanging in the den, ribald and miring the scene: a cuckold reading Hawthorne at home while his wife is out stripping for the pure pleasure of it.