On the way home I turn into Saddle Mountain State Park, driving cautiously up a single lane winding road, straining to hear, to see what's coming around.

Deep silky forest-scent, a primal community thriving on complexity; but when I walk a few steps in, stumps of thick redwood stand like mesas from another time.

Further up the road, 'typical forms' may be invoked, largely for heuristic and mnemonic purposes, but the 'atypical' is not necessarily degenerate, deformed or even a later development from the ancestral stock. 'Types' are invoked as well to serve as I walk between a scrim of venerable trees, behind which a clear-cut vista of almost naked hills, a scatter of moribund trees draws a few birds who try to sing, fewer with the courage to nest.


  In the end
              we all live


in a phantom           dwelling.


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