Somewhere I have traveled, there is a place where I have always been. This place I go to without people or books or other thoughts, I have been to alone, and my solitude is nearly perfect. There, I softly disappear. The birds that twitter high in the trees I seldom see. The scat of animals, probably bears, before my feet reminds me of the slow hustle of their enormous bodies, shy and deadly. The eroded ground traversing the slope’s decline shows me the deer’s thin trotted path. Fallen trees askew lying about uprooted could be like half-torn, half-discarded pages from timeless calendars rotting, as I step over their trunks and boughs. Patches of bright green ferns are growing in the summer’s clearings as I walk around their bent fronds reaching for warmth in unforgiven sunlight, like randomly found surprises that no one can own. If there is any language to be had, there is little of it here. For here while walking these quietly crackling backwoods underfoot I have always been, and have never missed another nor myself. Were I ever tempted later on to draw with a bare finger a pentagram in the uncovered dirt a picture of what it had been like, my simple diagram would trace decay, growth, beauty, quietness, and the chill of life itself where anyone else may have one day gone.