Forest Crashing


I’m sitting on a black rock, seeking knowledge from a wise looking chipmunk, but before I can learn anything useful, the damn thing takes off and darts beneath the bones of a fallen and forgotten tree. That’s how all these creatures are: skittish and untrusting. The birds scatter in all directions every time I approach. The squirrels act like I mean to do them harm and climb up fast to the high limbs like bottle rockets with legs.

They never go very far. Just enough to let me know I’m not one of them. I guess I’m getting used to it, but sometimes I say, “Come on, guys. I’m out here every day.” They just twitter and chirp and all that other woodland stuff. I think I hear them laughing.

The ticks and mosquitos, on the other hand, they all love me. They buzz around my head and try to hitch rides home on my ankles. Meanwhile, I can still hear the birds flapping just a few yards away.

Sometime I imagine that the flap, flap, flap of my tennis shoes on the trail is the sound my wings would make if I had myself a pair. That’d be something. Really something. Those little snobs would treat me different then, I bet.

But right now, I’m too big and slow and loud, I guess. It’s just me and the ticks and mosquitos trying to eavesdrop on conversations taking place just a few safe feet away from us.

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