Days In a Forest

On the days I’m in the forest, there is peace and gratitude, with being where time does move slow, and there’s the natural attitude, of the urging for survival, that keeps the forest in fine tune, without scars of foreign progress, in this million year cocoon. Landmarks ask many questions; answers been lost long years ago - what caused the rock formations? perhaps I’ll never get to know, and how many years, did it take to form valleys, eroded by a creek? what shaped mountains that I climb? what made the landscape so unique? On the days I’m in the forest, walking along a bushland trail, I’m distracted by scents and sights - through time, managed to prevail. There is no need to name them, just value touching on my soul, and transport this perfume with me, each time that I take a stroll. A lyrebird echo from a gully; a whipbird hidden close to me; mountain lories screeching overhead; static call of a bush canary - when a hungry hawk is hunting, knowing it too must survive, on the days I’m in the forest, and hear the bushland come alive. On the days I’m in the forest, when weather’s not the best, wind rustles through the canopy, showers blow in from the west, I rug up in my winter clothes, to protect from rain or snow, and feel the forest differently, or admire a distant rainbow. On the days I’m in the forest, in a world away from stress, where time has little meaning and nothing considered mess, I’m still eyed with a suspicion; an inbuilt predator to fear, on the days I’m in the forest, I’m an enemy who does appear.