Call of Beauty

I heard it again today,
the call —
somewhere between the trees
and the machines I love,
and I've stopped apologizing
for loving both.

The forest wraps me up
the way my mother must have once,
and I stretch my arms out
like a man who has nowhere to be
and means it.

I don't understand the magic yet.
I'm not sure I want to.
Some things you hold
the way you hold a bird,
loose enough to let it stay.

But when the light goes down
the wild calls me back to town,
to the low rooms and the bass,
and the people rise like animals
who remember, just for a night,
what they are.

I push the dance along.
I push it like a fire needs pushing,
and the speakers lead us all
out through the dark meadow
of ourselves,

hunting.
Not for food.
For the sound.
For the rhythm of the night,
which is all
there ever was.

w.e.Campbell – © 07/30/2026