Don’t tell me stories about screaming trees.
I’ve heard them in the forest after dark.
Strange boats landed on the shore from vast seas,
carrying saws to make a proper park
of old growth lands that lay beyond the known
and sweep up the sun-dappled leaf litter,
sowing where they’d reaped & reaping what they’d sown,
silencing the chitter of bird and critter.
Rearranging, like bedroom furnishings,
the space of nature’s grand, endless chaos.
Building fences, trapping, and clipping wings.
They spay and spray and pray, and scrape the moss.
The boats, long since rotted, landed near here
between that Taco Bell and the concrete pier.
On mountain trails, the sound of running water
— burbling or rushing —
is a stalwart companion.
Even the rushing water, rushes lazily,
having surrendered to gravity.
Stagnation requiring an act of might —
a Herculean struggle against the flow —
that no drop can muster.
Should an unfortunate splash
spray a drop into a rocky pool,
time will insist it give itself to condensation.
All paths lead to the sea,
but no two paths are the same.
a mushroom cap
mango and red, burnished
rises from the forest floor
decomposition painted into a setting sun
what a masterpiece nature makes of rotting gunk
that’s my forest
— deep and dark —
but, yet, I see cracks of azure dome
through the canopy gaps,
and when it undulates
competing species wave together —
tousled by the same hand
so, even though each sways at its own rate,
it looks like one gasping organism