And as I walked down the slopes of Ingleborough,
in the early freshness of an April morning,
the larks rose in front of me, one by one,
and sang their way upwards against the blue of the sky;
and I stood and watched, and listened,
and rose with them, above my terrain,
leading my life in the fullness of wing and beak,
displaying all that I have, the strength of my feathers,
then, song ended, sinking back down to the moor.
And if I commit to the path before me I find freedom;
and if I back away from the difficulties
I gain the illusory freedom of the fugitive,
skulking, evading capture, leading a lesser life.
The lark launches into air, wind, and song.
May I manifest the commitment of the lark.