I once wrote my pain on these hills, left my ghosts in crooks of its birches, exorcised my grief on these trails, and left always hungry to listen more deeply. today as I rose I retraced the hurried hoof-skids of a four-legged mammal on a quick retreat from last nights windstorm. in many places the storm's force had pierced the forest's soft belly with spears made of its own dismembered dendritic arms. rootless as they are they will drop to the ground before the next storm turns its face to this holy hill. and as I worked <with diligence, always, and reverence> my need for mercy passed surely and the Diesel engine of my blood-flooded body powered on. I became unstoppable, also scratching the earth with hurried, starved feet. as any true part of this land I forgot myself completely throwing away gender, shape, politics, until I could feel my Self again: calm and silent, speaking the most beautiful ephemeral poetry to me in a secret language. together me and my master, the inseminator of my future, these giants, the forest and I danced. in our perfect, golden rotation for a moment we held the entire universe in balance. so it goes with my many silent days in the forest spent talking with the rain and befriending bucks.