I'm thinking, and dreaming, at the sky, in the woods. All the stories. My story. Laying on this rock. Looking upward and outward. Letting go of control. Just sitting, and not deliberately scheming... just letting my mind flow.

Anger lifted me up. Anger inspired this. "Anger is a gift."

The trees above me form a circle around the sky. Catching the sky. Catching my eye. Catching my thoughts, in the webs, of branches, of spiders (of lovers, of fighters).

For a minute or two or three or ten, there is nothing I have to do, nothing I want to do, nowhere I want to be. Except here in the trees, with the sky, and the rock, and my eyes and my ears. And my nose, and my mouth. To breathe in the air, to breathe in the life. To live. And feel. Unbarred. Unprecedented. Unreal.

An impulse to stand, and move lifts me but does not disturb the peace. Does not even seem to be a movement. Flowing. Going.
For once I know where I am going, and where I want to be...

But only when I'm in the trees.






I step out. Dance along the curb. Deliberating again, but still not disturbed. The light of day, the stillness. Captured. The anger, the energy. Quelled.
The beauty. The simple, pure, healing power brought by the quiet and stillness of the trees...