Predisposition
By Tamara S., Rancho, CA
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Ten minutes into the woods, if you start at Pickles Pond
Stay to the right and watch out for ticks
You don’t need to whisper but the place we are going has no name
The leaves, like grounded firelight, shuffle underfoot
Dappled rays shine, scattered from a mottled sky
You can hear the water rushing; it’s as anxious as you are
Cicadas trill in the trees or on the ground
You can’t remember if they’re birds or bugs
But their sound only underlines the silence that surrounds
There’s a crackling in the air as autumn turns
Into what, you don’t know
But seasons come and go
Into this forgotten place you stumble
Where desires sleep and gods are dead
And all that’s left is you and me
The air is heavy, pungent
And you can almost taste the rain
That grays the clouds
There’s a sharp contrast between
The cold, wet rocks that slide
And your skin that hums with heat
Heads back, eyes up
Past the trees that are as broken as we are
Deep breath, yes,
This is indeed my most
Very favorite place
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