Do ghosts of Clovis people walk
in woods beside me as I wander?
Are they with me as I stalk
sharing every hunt, I wonder?

I've found some shards they left behind
both in forests and plowed meadows.
Each time I do it brings to mind
I'm not the first to walk these sylvan shadows

In the low rustle of oak leaves
are those muted whispers that I hear
woven among the gentle breeze?
If so, the soft words are unclear

While traversing waving fields of sage
are they zephyrs skipping beside me
or spirits from the last ice age
and do they see just what I see?

Or do they still seek extinct prey
among the primal woods and prairie
instead of what is here today?
Of dire wolves are they still wary?

I expect it's mere imagination
which now haunts these hills and hollows.
Regardless it lends inspiration
each time a dim game trail I follow.