The Wood He wanted to see the wood one last time. So, they took him back to trees dripping and bare, wading through dead leaves, last season’s remains. Take your time, retreating to leave him stood in that opening, under a gaunt-white sky, where once, summer high, a green-leafed roof swayed. Light, sparkling, found its way through to this same glade: the thrown bike’s wheel flickering grasshopper song, as he pushed aside ferns twice his height. Sensing the sure-footed trail...
