The Foragers

We forage for humanity, hidden fruits quench our thirst. Our hunting grounds, old overgrowth forest just off the rail-line, down the hill to the river, was a hobo camp long ago. Broken pottery, tin plates and old bottles half buried, speak of life's struggle. An attempt at a foundation, now crumbling, imagines hope for permanence, dissolved roots taken by time. The search, akin to walking through remnants of a forgotten culture, feels like trespassing. We sit and contemplate our passage as Wild Turkeys scavenge nearby. Peace is our prize.