The shaman
stood straight up,
rising suddenly
from a bed of clover,
stamped his front hoof
four times,
then leapt head long
into the forest.

Back to the wood,
to where the soul
is immersed in the smell
of wet leaves
and wild mushrooms.

Where the mind is relieved
by the sound of the wind
sighing softly
through the bending,
swaying trees.

Back to where
something long lost,
waits only
to be found.