His hands, opaque and weary, yet soft like flower petals… They’re inviting, like the crisp air after snowfall, or a woven scarf nestled upon your neck. Saturated with intelligence, he knows the wildwood like the back of his hands, and the wrinkles on his knuckles. As tall as a beanstalk, and quite feeble, he’s and explorer. He is at large, free from the reality of the city’s grasp, of foolish people, the everyday routine of life that he once knew all too well. A man who used to buy things to bring a feeling of high-spirit now only needs the bare necessities to paint a smile onto his face. His face, a masterpiece, a phoenix that draws you in so severely, pulling you towards those deep green eyes, so beautifully somber, telling a distant story of the road less traveled, without words.

His appearance is diverse from any other. Some say he’s scruffy, untamed, and homely. I say unique and tasteful. Suiting the outdoorsy look better than a Cabela’s Catalog, his cheekbones are defined and as sharp as the land he lives on. His is a one-man army, him and Melanie, his cherished rosewood banjo, his moonshine, the reminder of the vast freedom he now lives. At the top of a mountain, deep among the forest, he fingerpicks old bluegrass melodies upon the stump of a fallen friend. Singing with a voice of pure harmony that tickles your heart warm, inside out, never failing to ever be more pure and sacred.

Roused by the patter of a solo Downy Woodpecker, he reaches for his can of Copenhagen without eyes. The aroma of decrepit tobacco and mint leaves blindly pin-point the canisters location, or possibly the fact that it’s exactly where he ditched it, the cusp of his jeans. Fulfilled by morning nicotine, the grogginess slowly vanishing, he peeks at the sky and out at the flourishing environment, noticing, but looking beyond earth’s blemishes, as they are a mere inheritance to the worlds’ creativity.

Like Johnny Appleseed, he hoofs amongst gods’ timber thicket with such pride. Through the wild, storming breeze and manifesting countryside, which presides on this flashy, loam eaten globe, he is beaming with gratitude and tranquility. The hills are his harbor, his helter-skelter refuge, his one true satisfaction which tops all things mighty and elegant. The lakeside is his natural bath, the fountain of his youth. Forest creatures and bush berries enriched with good-being supply him with life.
The stars act as a subtle, well lit blanket, like the soothing tingle of chamomile tea stewing in your warm, purple mug, brewing stronger with each passing minute, only to become greatly delicious with every last drop, to be devoured down into the pit. Those minutes made a difference to the taste, the flavor of what his eyes see, and mind ponders. His name is Oak, and he is a mountain man.