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Stories

Where did I become lost in fog?
I wonder, wandering, moonlight an unreliable guide.
Grasping branches in an obscured forest,
Which I don’t remember entering,
My fingers read their stories.
The forest was always here, the bark insists.
Decomposing leaves crunch that they are my siblings.
Born of the same root network. Neighbors.
An owl hoots how lovely the view is,
Perched on his tulip poplar penthouse.

I march with ants.
Some fog this is, right? Can’t see a thing.
The ants don’t agree, they can smell fine.
But a squirrel hears our small talk,
And while she doesn’t know a way out of the forest,
There’s a sturdy oak just ahead.
It’s tall, with many branches and acorns, she said.
We walk there together.

Once there, she scampers to her nest.
Her home is 15 meters off the forest floor,
And she’s up there in a minute.
It takes me much longer to reach the same height,
But I keep climbing ‘til the branches can’t hold me.
I look out.

Fog rolls through the arboreal crowd,
Parting around trunks, hugging the ground.
Its waves flow for miles, and miles beyond the horizon.
There are no lights, just the moon’s glow,
Which the fog dimly reflects.
Any path out is blocked by black silhouettes of hills.

As I climb down, the squirrel feels my disappointment.
She’s sorry I can’t leave, or return home
(What is home, anyway?)
But she offers to share this tree with me,
As long as I look out for that owl.
I think briefly, then agree.
The squirrel’s been kind and generous.
I should repay the favor.