The trees are our lungs, the rivers our circulation, the air our breath, and the earth our body

I go to the woods alone, I can sit on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds

When you go out into the woods and see the crooked forest..

So silent is the sessile air that every cry and call, through layered shrub and forest fair, might repeat them all

Finding the blossoming from the nourishment of the roots

Capturing the feeling of forest rain

These black bush-waters, heavy with crusted boughs, like plumes above dead captains

You ask why I make my home in mountain forest, and I smile, and am silent, even my soul remains quiet

Maybe you are searching among the branches for what only appears in the roots