by Christian Conte
How long have I been lying in these leaves?
…it’s best not to think about it.
It makes the time go by quicker.
But what else will I think about?
Will I think about the tall tree tops?
The hemlock is not as beautiful without its pines.
The maple is not as rich without its leaves.
But the squirrels still hop from tree to tree.
They chase each other, spiraling
down the oak tree, as if
gravity did not matter.
As if life were a carefree game.
They hop in and out of the leaves,
squeaking with joy.
Their little feet crunch the crisp leaves.
They even run over me
as if I am part of the forest.
But I am not as pure as the air
nor moist as the ground.
The birds begin to chirp.
Their sweet voices fill the air
as if it were a sanctuary.
Now I know why he comes here.
Down the path I hear a brook,
with the gentle spray of its falls
and the rushing and brushing
against the rocks.
Up the trail comes a family of deer.
The children promenade with the swaying trees
and the parents sniff for food,
but they don’t smell me.
I’m glad I had this time.
No one else appreciates
the beauty of the world
more than our kind.
Then, another kind of sound
taints this utopia.
The loud patting of his despicable feet.
The panting of his heavy, foul breath.
Thank you forest for sharing your beauty.
I’m sorry it has to happen here.
(I set my sight on him
and begin to slowly tighten the trigger)
Last updated September 18, 2011