Into the dense canopy of a bamboo forest. It smelt of spring on the summer leaves. A silence accompanied our little stroll, Each word we spoke came back as an echo. A full moon looked down on us, the breeze blew bringing hints of muted snow. I leaned Onto your shoulder and thought "this was too good to last"
1. There was the tremor of leaves, a rustle of bayonet grass parried the multihued calm of dawn's smeared light. "This is what we trained for," the captain said. We hunkered behind stacked bags of sand.
2. Filigreed shafts of light pierce the bullet perforated leaf canopy, bellowed yells punctuate the swirl and buffet of turbulent air: “Contact”, “2 O’Clock”, “Incoming”, “ "Moving”, “Reloading”, “Ammo”.
3. Fingers twitch, the grit of soil twisted through their grip; moon slashed carcasses glint, spent shells, Earth exhales a vermillion mist, rising, echoless, in this a cathedral of leaves.
We don't have to walk far Under the cover of canopy To find exposure. Once outside the city, Outside the usual framework, Outside the boundaries of polite necessity, We can truly breathe. On the trail I bathe in dust And my hands converse with trees When asking for support. Nursing logs remind us Where we stand In an ancient cycle, And we can confess anything. Stripped down to our bare humanity. It's the intimacy I used to chase in pillow-talk, But without the dance. The trail is always a soul's journey, Whether solo or shared.