What does it mean

when the mountains

whisper in raindrops,

roar to me

through the windy sky?

There’s a snaking brook

behind my parent’s house

where I used to hop

from one moss rock

to another,

where the frogs told

six year old me

with the knotted hair

their wild stories

and the robins dipped

their beaks in disbelief.

I listened nonetheless.

I have always

rediscovered myself

in the trees.

I once went running

through the Upper Peninsula

and the woods

swallowed me whole,

spit me back out

onto the trail,

forever changing me

into a forested beast

wrapped in bristled fur —

I now howl

when the moon completes

her waxing and waning.

Make way for my thunder

make room for the hunt

as I am nature

in her most wondrous form.


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