The wind tastes like the sea,
which does not belong here.
The trees stretch up and up,
like they wish they could leave.

Men shout like seagulls
but without any wings.
They stomp around
ruining the moss's quiet
and then fall over
I don't know why they keep doing this

I eat a fern.
It tastes like a fern.
This feels important.

The ground screams,
then remembers something,
then screams harder
and lies down to think a while.

A crying person runs out of her tree.
Fire follows her.
Fire always follows people.
I leave because my lungs say no.

Later,
the forest speaks more softly.
Sunlight comes down through the ash,
and grass grows over the screaming places.
It tastes like grass.
This seems polite.

Another tree-person cries
deep inside the wood.
I wonder if he'll run too,
or if crying counts as staying.

I eat another fern.
It tastes like a fern.
But the air still smells wrong.


Penned by my hand on the 2nd of Miraman, in the year 993 AF.