Cabin In the Woods

Sitting here high in the trees. I hear the sound of the cantankerous birds and the impatient buzzing of bees. I hear the flapping clothes drying on a line and the cork pop of the sweet dry wine that rests on my tongue as a warm memory on the mind. The late afternoon sunlight comes through the pines- filtered, layered, transcendental. Different things matter here, but only noticed are the consequential. The flint for the fire, the candle for which to write. Of all that is silent, nothing more omnipotent than the night. And the bullfrogs that croak until too horse to neigh. Like me they can’t find sleep...but anyway. I hear the world here so instead I just listen. In one of those moments where there is no place else I would rather be missing.