Roads
The roads here run forever.
Winding like black rivers through forced apart forest. You drive through tunnels, worm holes forged by trees straining upward and out of sight.
Alone in the car these trees talk to you. Their words are mumbled forrest talk, pushed through thick, mossy lips. It is the sound of crumbling bark, squeak of wood on wood. The pines arguing with the birches over birth rights to the sun.
This goes on forever.
Later while doing dishes, your hands clenching a red coffee mug, you will still hear their strange tree talk. Out back beyond the chicken coop you can hear them. Whispering, whispering.
Winding like black rivers through forced apart forest. You drive through tunnels, worm holes forged by trees straining upward and out of sight.
Alone in the car these trees talk to you. Their words are mumbled forrest talk, pushed through thick, mossy lips. It is the sound of crumbling bark, squeak of wood on wood. The pines arguing with the birches over birth rights to the sun.
This goes on forever.
Later while doing dishes, your hands clenching a red coffee mug, you will still hear their strange tree talk. Out back beyond the chicken coop you can hear them. Whispering, whispering.