In these woods that swallow up the road just north of town, the first bird sang as I sat up. It was 4:40 in the morning. By 4:50 many others joined, a mourning dove was last. And at 5:15, light level leaped from subtle glow to bright.
My first night in the white birch grove up the hemlock glen, full moon. Now, leaf shapes land above me on the tent’s tarp roof, a collage like handmade paper, changing every hour. I, a layer between suspended leaves and earth, with air between.
At 5:25, distant, down the hillside, a car passes on its way, unseen.