Reaching what I call the Wailing Wall with its mottled with spongy moss, I lift my head to cups of tiny caves, in which miniature hermits live. How did they get so small? The deeper their vision, the smaller their bodies need to be?

I look for what has never been seen before: The straight of a bough; a bird that isn't there.

Does the forest hold a grudge?
Are there family feuds amongst the trees?

I lace up my boots, and go to find wisdom.
To regulate the mind down to a single breath. Do hermits grow to the size of their habitate?

The creek's lamenting the death of a young trout.

The forest remembers.

A runner passes me.

        My breath condenses.


I walked home with mud
                          on  my feet.

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