Foxes guard the entrances.
Alternations of rotations between
garbage pail extractions. Yaps warn
the “Silent” within of an approaching
inconvenience. After setting off
the alarms, I walk right through the
front entrance on Oregon Trail Lane
as if nothing’s going on.
Subtlety is not for the forest.
Oaks and Beeches show off
exaggerated features in front of me like
gaudy 19th century Territory prostitutes
measuring up surplused undesirables
entering a saloon. Trees want to
be touched. That’s why they lean in,
towards me, as I progress further
on the person-pavement
into their Dominion.
So many leaves for so little sun.
Hard to believe some weren’t created for me.
But…
Spiderweb clotheslines remind you that
you are a visitor voluntarily from the periphery.
Forest business goes on independently in
spite of you. Your illusion, that its grandeur
is proven by your collusion.
Born out of asteroid droppings and then
a lava baptism encore. Someday there will be
no evidence of you, but owls will
still have a place to hunt the squirrels
that still have a place to hide.
It was great before the first Powhatan
opened their eyes. Way, way before an
iPhone told a high blood pressure accountant
that walking in nature will set his clocks back.
Forests aren’t serene. They bubbleboil and ooze
secrets you don’t want to know about.
Trees don’t tell of Omertaed natural
horrors that happened in your “playground.”
Downed spiderwebs the only temporary
evidence that you ever transgressed.
—
Thomas Behan is a writer from Washington, DC. He has been published in Isele Magazine, Cinnabar Moth Literary Collections, and George Washington University Press. His literary fiction story “Symbiosis” will be published in Secant Publishing’s upcoming climate anthology. He also has a forthcoming short story collection through Alien Buddha Press.
