I was hiking up Mount Boyd and the forest was a neon green saturated, vivid not like the desert sand I walk my dog in. The forest colors seemed wet and wild and if the leaves and blades of grass could sing the notes would carry me, but I didn’t want to be carried I wanted to feel the earth under my feet; feel the warmth of my muscle fibers…the friction. The stretch of each step I welcomed with tears, not the same tears I shed trying to make it across a room. No, these tears wet my face and I glowed because I could walk again.
There it was had it fallen from the skies above? Parked there a freakish twisted rusting vision of metal, but nonetheless a forest bug. What story would it tell me had I thousand minutes to sit and listen enraptured by its haunting dialogue.