Standing in front of what I call the Wailing Wall, mottled with spongy moss, I lift my eyes to cups of tiny caves in which miniature hermits live. How did they get so small?


The deeper their vision, the smaller their bodies need to be?

I look for what has never been seen before: A bough that doesn't break. A bird that isn't there.


Does the forest hold a grudge?
Are there family feuds amongst the trees?

I lace my boots tight, and stride off in pursuit of wisdom.

To regulate the mind down to a single breath, do hermits grow to the size of their habitate?

The creek's lamenting the death of a young trout. The forest remembers its own.


A runner passes me.


My breath condenses.

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