Typing up my forest journals
The furious insects, starved they wait, comfort in the roots of trees. Light among the rot and bones, greener than the day is hard. Only birds while they talk, of spiders homes and ageless winds. Cold in the hollow perch, the taste of fungal spore and dirt. I am giant, I am slow, unforgiven clumsy brute. Crawls and splinters, whimper heart, reach like fingers begging skin. Impervious flesh start to groan, grow fat on grubs and glory past. Not as sly, nor as notable as brush. Bracken promise never held, feasts upon the age-ed bark.