I’ve awoken in this forest again.
Under these cedar boughs, shaking dead leaves from my hair, I yawn and rub my eyes.
It’s already late, but sun rays are still finding their way in. The maple grove hidden inside has turned so orange, yellow, and iron red. The season is late too, and so my bones, my joints, my sinew — they all cry out their dread for the snowstorms that are always on their way, always just around the corner.
…