“I see men as trees, walking.”
Where do ghosts go in the daytime? Up the path. Through the woods to the sunlit clearing, strewn with abandoned appliances, rusted car parts, burnt-out bonfires.
Eavesdrop on the birds in a place of perfect camouflage. They fly right past my head. I have yet to decipher their language. But there’s no hurry.
In late afternoon the wind picks up. The orange glow of the sun slides along the side of the strip-mine mountain.
Over across the river the bushes part, a secret path, silent creatures. The forest animals look in my direction but cannot see anything.
Deer-shapes frozen in wood.