In the Quiet

Quiet encompassed. Muffled life inside a sigh. Soft. Branches crack snap, smothered by fog. Thick molasses breath. Fingertips press into. Prying, carving, whittling space for lips to part, space for eyes to peer through, to. A bare foot touches bog top moss, soggy grass ground, sinks. She slinks. Rubs fur against damp bark. Stark, she pulls away a coating of moss sponge, clinging. She sniffs it, licks it, tight with the tip of her tongue. Gentle. Drawing her face up to squint into precipitous space, a ferment on her palate and mind. Her mood kind, or appearing. Tearing.
A mosquito drowns in digest, struggling escape from the depths of a pitcher plant. Flower walls slick. Legs stick, scramble, tremble, twitch. A tiny stitch in space time rips to accommodate a tiny soul. The flower wilts, tilts, bends at the stalk; heavy under heady satisfaction, full and sated, laden with formative cells ready to integrate.
Pupils dilate in empty darkness.
The sun rise, seasonal ruse. Cues, it is early and it is also late. Paint, casting pink shadows long on varying states of earthly creation.  Bright elation. Unfurling frog tongues and uncurling stiff toes, lift rows of bold turtle heads towards wrinkles in the pond. It is time, spreading.
Branches wither. Brittle-boned winter. Dry flaking brown leaves make their fall long, a ground stretch, resting on bitter air. Water stills and stills. To solid state. Stolid.

Tree fall, split. Wood spit splinters. Rings quit, growing. Upwards and outwards, fabrication. A building, dwelling, welling water from springs rising. Uprising tunnels of ants marching towards softer prey, they lay, in pine boards between cords of electric wiring and, tiring, they fall asleep beside a leather boot, cracked and covered in mud. Ruddy cheeks against rough wool casings of pillows. A bouquet of pussy willows wilting on the table. 

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