Standing in the forest
The scrubby brush nearby nearly engulfs me, surrounds me, wants to pull me down
The arms of the trees reach upwards, always upwards
Too close, the gases choke my breath, some perfuméd, some sick with death
…
We wait
…
The doors open
much jostling, not a word
the trees move onward, outward, rushing ever rushing upwards
to make room for more
rebuilding the forest under the ground