Terrified People Running

Terrified people running. Terrified screaming.

They all run past. Alone again. And quiet again.

I am still on the little road in the forest.

I walk on.

A person’s legs stick up out of the earth, sway slowly about like the fronds of a fern. I go near the legs. This I have never seen before.

Another terrified person runs past. He looks at me, but only briefly. He goes on and I can no longer hear him.

How does this planted person breath? And should I tickle his feet? And is this person a he? The legs are hairy, but only somewhat. The hair is delicate and clean. The legs themselves are clean. Even the toes are clean. But how is this possible?

I have the strong temptation to tickle the feet. The legs are buried somewhere between knees and crotch, so that I can see the knees but not the crotch. But if I dig could I see the crotch? But should I do so?

Another terrified person runs past. This one is a woman, a young woman, or possibly a teenager. It’s so hard to tell when they are running, when they are screaming and when their faces are so distorted out of terror.

But what can be so terrible that they should behave so?

I sit on a stump and ponder. A bluebird lands near.

The bluebird flies off again.

I look at the legs, wait. Look, think. Wander.