Soft Ground

By
More by this author
The ground is soft, the sky is blue. As I walk miles deeper into the woods, I feel the air getting heavier. A mosquito bites my arm. When I hit it, the bug merely falls to the ground. There is a tree. The tree is the size of a 30-story workplace, but ageless and eternal. Sunshine is pouring through the cracks of the twigs tempting me to ascend and take hold of it. I strip the shoes off my feet and grab onto the branches, I pull myself up. I haven’t yet glanced down. When the branches start to feel weak and my legs tired, I make myself comfortable with my head in a nook and my back on the mossy bark that resembles carpet. My feet dangling from fifty feet up, covered in dirt and earth.

From my haven in this plant I gaze over the landscape. The sun is setting. I can tell this from the long, shimmering ribbon of light reflected in a body of water a few miles over. I climb down; I step on a branch and feel the bark against my toes. I feel the soil under my toes. I feel the grass below my toes. The sand covers my toes like water. The water envelops my feet. Earth, water, me. I’m feeling close to home. I turn my head to see a bridge that stretches longer than my eye can see. I walk it. Cattails sway in the breeze like a pendulum. My route marked by wet footprints. I reach land with dry soil and high green grass. I continue to stroll, looking at the day's end painting the sky. I reach a split in the trail. Both will show me a way to the unknown.





Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback