I float about the pale birches, as
my reflection of burning reds
streams down the river.
I jolt around to the snap of ground twigs
each cracking carefully,
each creak creeping closer.
I wince at the movement,
each fiber tugging,
each escape vanishing.
I peer at unusual visions—
sights, sounds, smells,
brighter lights, greener stems.
I land on the hand of a nearby child.
and the room pours out with spirit.
I reminisce before a finger-printed window.
No birch trees, no rivers,
but this is my home.