I drink hot liquids abnormally slowly and I often stare at the forest, waiting for the redwoods to impart some of their ancient knowledge on me. I wish to exist as they do- one tree does not run to another and say “you are growing too tall” or “your trunk is curved, it should stand straight like me.” A pine does not devote its life to convert the huckleberry bush- a fur does not shed its pines because of a nearby naked oak. The forest is connected and interactive as it stands, not as it should be. The trees will tell you their story. If you would listen.

The soft scratch of an insect crawling on my paper brought me back to the moment and briefly I forgot where I was, who I was.

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