I caught myself laughing several times yesterday (and today). Once you step off the train, you’re in a postcard. It’s hilarious. The view from our hostel looks out over a bulbous, rolling mountain, covered greatly by trees–even though parts have been cleared for skiing and hiking. There is an illusion in the mountains, too, and it’s not hard to spot. Even now, looking out over the porch, the trees look maybe ten feet tall. It looks a short, two minute walk to reach out and touch all of them and step over them like some kind of Atlas turning the tables. These firs and pines, though, are at least one hundred feet tall each.
Each treetop peaks out and brushes against the sky, forming a zipper-line zig-zag from one end of the horizon to the other. And you are sitting there, laughing, wondering where the sky and earth separate.
We went on a hike last evening as the sun was setting behind the high-clouds which seem to just (and maybe they do) apparate. I sensed eyes in the woods on myself and my party, though I did not say anything. This place is very mysterious. I can see now, why it has spawned many myths and fables… The woods is alive in more than one sense, and while you are in it, you are its guest. Unfortunately, we had to stop our hike early because of the descending night. The trail led ahead further, much further, as steep as it was when we started.
Once night had fully taken over, the moon peeked through the clouds as a glowing orb in the sky. The wind carried wisps of gray before it like a shapeshifting gobo. ”Wow,” was all anyone could seem to say. It rested comfortably atop the mountain, a few degrees above the tallest pines, and waited.
I got home and there was a bowl by my door.
I picked it up and it was full of dead bees,
sprinkled with withering rose petals.
So I poured in milk—2%—
and spooned the contents of the bowl
into my mouth.
I chewed thoroughly
until the bottom pitch swirled
pink and gray, only a wing remaining.