birds sing to birds,
and the insects hum along,
through the small holes in
dry dirt or rifts, in the tree
limbs.

I am awake, in repose;
sense scent of my skin losing water,
I am alive, in this indolent glade.
I am wearing cut grass on my back.
I am made of distraction,
but trying to lose it.

I am still, like the winter;
but as many miles across as
the forest can bear my weight
of bark and root, stone and
hoof, I am the environment my
senses tie together.

I am the life and decay,
pulling each other, like taught strings;
having no need for meaning,
I've become devoid of reason.

I am,
that is all I need.

I am.