sometime after the houses recede into pine, after the sound of engine gives way to chirps and gurgles, there comes a moment. a moment of complete immersion. accompanying this immersion is a strange sort of pride - pride in your ability to pacify an entire ecosystem just by virtue of your stealth. animal apprehension melts away in the face of how natural and unobtrusive you are. you are, and have always been, a part of this, and the hawks in their perches all nod in approval. and in this moment, all at once, though it seems to happen gradually over many eons of growth and decay and regrowth, the stone of your humanity crumbles, falling soundlessly among moss as ivy wreathes about it in time-lapsed quickness. you become goldgreen movement.
then (always, always) there comes a next moment. a moment heralded by a metallic crunch. confusedly you think: that is not the sound of hobbit-feet on soft wet earth. half of you says: forget this sound. let it sink into the mud as we continue on into the eternal amber evening. but the other half, containing some surviving scrap of wretched curiosity, says: just one quick look down. there you see your dirty fluorescent sneaker on a half-crumpled can of busch light. to the left is another can. to the right is a used condom. a rank sewersmell floods your nostrils as you look back up, to the startled flap of wings and the far-off lowing of a truck’s horn.