The trees stood in unordered lines, but braced, poised as a choir, the deeper you went into the wood the deeper the wood went into
Autumn, the louder the trees sang until their latticed  voices worked against each other,  cutting like an exquisite pruner’s knife that took films of damp card bark off  the outside of the heart then that slither edge could enter it before being  noticed, slipping  between, splicing for new growth, the orange wood stained air rushing in the wound.

 These were the pockets of light and place of heavier slower  time, the dips and shadows of the  world  that made me want to lie under bushes, in paper leaf pools, curl in the nape of tree roots, wait for the choir to shatter me, scatter me to wind, the choir of trees swelling to a dissident,  un resolved end,  summoning  fear  from the ground, the musk of wolves
mixed with rotting leaves, as if something had been buried and the shallow ground turned over.

From over the rolling field of held and teeming life, as  Ruach Breath of God moved from brooding on the waters, wind pushes aside the copse curtains to play on my curled and huddled body, across me as the note I am  amongst staves, sounding with the trees,  needing to be away  from dust of conversations, intentions, cries and laughs that tumble through the air too fast to read and slam against my ears. Here is the isolation and the solitude, the brother arms of deep sank trees, that let me wait with them until my note can ring.