I count the treads of my boot in the mud
I drop to my knees and the mud’s on my jeans
She who walks past this point will muse
Of the forest gods that slipped past my screens.

Who do I worship here?

The birds trill “SKREEEEEEE!” on an opal sky
A dog howls off by the skyrise line
The ants make no sound as they scurry by
My hands are blue with the winter’s sheen.

I think of the ants on a warship.

The ocean is out; She never looks real
Her plastic-wrap surface, her crests too slow.
 She’s nothing like forest – a tangible soap
That washes away the mud from my soul.

As long as I breathe, I can’t touch the curtain
That separates me from the truths I seek
But here in the woods, I know for certain
That even the ants hear the prayers of the weak. 

And the ants are part of the truth.