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Wooded

May 1, 2017

The people too many, the trees too few, the gasping straining earth underfoot. Their presence felt all too little in the city but once outside its narrow bounds, that presence felt all too much, glimpsed through the blooming trees, intuited through the distinct lack of insects, be they fly, bee or tick. They do not swarm to my nape, temples or underarms as the should. Despite them, I have found my way through the underbrush, past the unyielding thicket, to a hollow, glen or dale, so many words which we still know but no longer that to which they should stand in relation. There, safe from them all, throned upon a treefork. Should I need flee farther, two bridges lay thrown across the feeble waterways which here pass for streams, one a whole log, heavier with moss than my weight, the other mere bundled twigs and boughs. But for the moment I remain free, in my lonesome way, come out the other side of a trying period and seeking to attune my own world to that of but one world-in-itself to which I would lay claim. Elderly trespassers come to interrupt my court of birds, streams and buds. Where I heard but wind in the trees, hear I now words, the speech of kith and kin. Unwanted eyes upon me. The log creaks beneath my weight or I drive them back.

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