The tundra tufted moraines were now to become his digs,
where fingers of snow adorned the rifts and clefts
above, and highlit Denali’s sprigs.
And he never rested as one who ever was exiled did.
His feet and his heart never would.
For his exile now was more a pilgrimage than a sentence.
And his sentence to the wilderness …….
was now more a beginning than an end.