i make my approach, mimicking plaintive movements of the colossus cloud structures migrating across serene vastness. -----their blue plains -----are my green plains; -----their source -----is my source. i see a silhouette wandering on far off hill: i wonder... the crows leave no trace in the air. their cawing has caught my heart like a hook would a fish. the unrelenting wind at my back will not have me turn back: i am promised to the forest. at the edge of the trees is a grave, modestly marked by a small wooden cross: perhaps it is my grave. i enter ungracefully into a forgotten kingdom of grace ravaged. the earth, so full of life, is carpeted with death: brown leaves crunch beneath my boots. the webs of ivy i traverse make me feel unwelcome. elsewhere, on trees fallen and others not yet so, merciless ivy and giant vines constricting. elsewhere, the singing of birds unseen in beauty. the whispers of trees are earth shattering, soul cleaving: freeing me from my confines concrete. everything that does not seem still tremblesβ do i seem still? the trunks of trees are robust like my being; i look up, their high reaches sway playfully, gently, as sun rays gain entry also and remind me of my duties which i am gift to. it's true, my dear Emerson: perpetual youth is found in the woods, but we mustn't tarry too long.