In the woods, in a hollow within easy earshot of here, is an amphitheatre. This weekend, art songs and folk and jazz. People sit on benches cut from halved logs and set into the slope. Musicians stand on a stage cut into the base of the opposite slope. I listen for a bit, then back into the dark.
I go until I hear an owl ahead, then more owl than guitar, then I go slowly and softly and only owl close on my right and crackling leaves and branches close on my left. I stand with my face to the crackle, listen to the owl behind me, watch fireflies and look into the dark. I'm a tree.
I'm a tree. I'm a tree. My hands sweat in my pockets. But I am a tree. I'm a tree. I forget and sniff and something snorts. Something snorts. Something is cracking there and there and there. Something, I think, is pissing just over there. I'm a tree. I think of sharp dirty gouging infectious tusks digging into my legs. But I want to see a boar tonight. I'm a tree. I'm a tree.
I'm a tree. I'm a wah! A boar runs out of the brush and I start and it starts and the boar has friends and they're all running somewhere near me in the dark. Galloping circling galloping in the dark on two-pronged hooves and we're off in opposite directions for a few paces.
Then the hooves are drifting away and I'm pissing into the leaves and a boar snorts and I'm walking in the dark with fireflies and then people round a fire at the edge of the park and then the woman is home from the horse people and cats have fur.