The Trickery of the Wild

The ability to stay calm is a hard task to manage. The wooden bench I am sitting on creaks with every move I make. Each creak stabs my ears. The open wilderness surrounding me has a sinister face it likes to hide. The strong wind blows my loose papers- they scatter. Unable to finish- The heat rises. My cheeks burn. My breath turns into sharp intakes like pine needles in my throat. The dead grass pounds underneath my feet as I break its calm state. The dreaded wind echoes in my ear, taunting me. I stand from the bench as a chill zig zags through my body. I must find the papers. The terrifying journey begins- the trees open up with an ugly grin. I ball my fists and an unpleasant mist fills my vision. The coppery rotten smell of wet, decaying tree stumps causes dizziness to invade my head. The twigs break under my feet. Snap. Snap. Snap. The papers, I must find, I must finish- Page two I now possess, maybe this isn’t such a mess. However, no other white is visible within the blur of green and brown. A small blue jay flutters its wings to elevate, but the freedom never prevails. I feel the sweat creep on my neck and forehead. I stand at a pause. I take a deep breath and break the silence. I jump at my own sound. I’m getting off track, I must finish the poem. The wind comes again. I crouch on my knees and watch as the mocking white petals from the Cornus float up above me. My heart sinks as dread fills my body. As the wind dies down, the eerie mist appears again, I see long fingers in the mist reaching toward me. Instead of running, I decide to lay. I feel the dew from the leaves crawl up my spine. The green all around me forces turmoil in my stomach. It’s as if the pages still residing in my head are slowly withering away. No white. None. Just the petals, the beautiful, lying petals. I rest my head on the moss-ridden rock lying beside me. Looming above my head is the thick mist, but I can see a silhouette towering over me, there stands an oak tree. There are dead leaves on the ground from the oak under my fingers. They seem peaceful. They escaped the mist’s clutches- they’re the lucky ones. Maybe I could be like them- lying here forever. The crushing debt shows no mercy as each breath comes in slower. The mist gets thicker with each fast throb of my heart. The ability to stay calm is a hard task to manage. I must finish-