Broken

Flies suck. I’ve realized by now they aren’t going to bite me or otherwise harm me, but I still want to kill them. They mess with my leg hair and I’m ticklish. I wonder if maybe the Native Americans had a trick for this.

Now I’m checking my watch. I set a timer for 5 minutes and promised I wouldn’t look. Too late. Time is slow.

I think I’m hearing things. A rustle here, a rustle there. In my mind it’s an axe murderer.

Speaking of unsafe, I’ve moved and I hear a new noise. There it is once. It’s odd. I ignore it. I hear it again. And again. It sounds like a washboard. Definitely not an axe murderer.

I’m a slow thinker, but I finally it together: it’s a rattlesnake. I move. But, I move slowly, almost reluctantly.

Odd how flies move me, but a rattlesnake barely does. I walk back carefully.

I realize, on the way, the rattlesnake was warning me. Which was nice of him. I should go back and say thanks. I don’t.

I see a tree. It fell. Or it got pushed. I wasn’t there to see. It’s broken now. Poor thing.

I’d never seen the inside of a tree. Until now. Imagine a brain with a hard shell. It’s gorgeous, enchanting.

It’s sad we only see wholly in brokenness.

I just broke open a cocoon to see what was in it. I did it in the name of understanding and exploration. I feel bad for that.

I ask myself: Must discovery be born from destruction? I leave, with broken grass trailing behind me.

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