06.12.2003 - 3:19 p.m.

Start with trees, no, start with their trunks. Dark, grey, textured pillars that stretch from the needle-carpet to the green-spotted ceiling, from where I am standing to farther than I will ever walk. If this place were man-made it would be a cathedral; if I�d gotten here first I�d be truly alone.

There is a low pile of granite stones, stones that have no place in this fractal of ground, trunk and canopy that dissolves into the distance. There was one like it in some place I�ve been before and vaguely remember, but if there is another somewhere ahead, I can�t see it.

I reach down and lift the top stone from the cairn. Its faces stretch my fingers apart, its cool heft weighs on my palm and I can feel the poem gathering at the base of my skull, I can hear the beginning of a story skirting the brown silence around me. This is a good place. These trees know things, old things, things too important to pass on to visitors and tourists. Something begins here.

I will wait to find out what.

-stonebridge

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