We stand on the edge of the weald. You whisper weald. What's left of the once great forest of hardwoods and pines. We move, for we are two: you and I. When I am you, you are me, and we are one here in my head. You and I, we move into the weald; these woods are dark, dark, dark. Quiet. The boles are towers to the smudged sky in this crepuscle as we muscle our way through brambles and ivies we dare not touch, piercing with poison. They worry, worry while we move, you and I, into the quiet
(where soft footfalls on the pine needle blanket)
(where crackling branches under foot)
(where scuttling of squirrels, beetles, and who-knows-what)
(where slithering lizarding round the trunks)
where we rest our head, my head and yours. We are inside the world inside the weald inside. How we wander, rest, and wander and rest. Something is always observing us here but never someone, so we are safe. Silent owl like a cat with wings. Inscrutable nightjar. Watchful bobcat. Worried rabbit. Uncertain deer. Dull opossum. Sharp skunk. Glistening mink. Artful fox. We see the shrug of the berm ahead. We jog up to see the clear reflection of the sky in the surface of the pond as the stars spark into view, slowly as a dream unfolding. We look up and down to compare the view. We hear the coyotes in the distance.