Member-only story
Whispers
Prose
They pass ethereal not grounded swirling up where the canopies are. Wind hearts acquainting those who reach — scheduling the ascend. Masters of craft and magic, you feel them but never see. Humans don’t have the right, perfection has it’s price. They show you secrets, let you feel around the limbs still growing against the hollow dead from below, take your ropes away and let you feel home.
Set camp: Hook the hammock like a bird. Lots of them around, they all got something to say. Plenty to do: your reason for being there and the other reason unlike any other. The breath given is taken as the trees’s atmosphere. Comfortable is practiced, cozy assured. Bark tells stories of titans. Some lie on the forest floor, trunks stretching away almost as far as the eye can see. Some stand against hundred year pillars, Kings and Queens still royalty. Forests do societies old school, we don’t know how much we have destroyed. Our awful excuses pitiful and dull, we don’t have a hint after the last tree falls.
Down and deep regenerative crust always working the play. The show goes on with or without us, scenes continue without sod. Ones that show for curtain call shed light the rest is void. Dark and light spaces draw how we see into nothing. It causes back at us wanting to know why we aren’t smart enough to handle this. We hacksaw earth, idiot’s greed, but there is more to it. Stay if you can.
We will never be the same again.
Michael Stang 2021
