Wilds

I had a dream I was a fiscal counsellor, negotiating with my grandmother and late grandfather the terms of their estate and whether or not they should move. We were in their old home and all three of us were bizarrely ageless, like you assume we all appear to each other in heaven.

Some mornings you wake to find your well-kept lawn has been overrun by a thick jungle terrain and nasty buzzing fauna. Yesterday you were a metropolitan, but today by necessity, you must wear the skin of the bushman. To survive, you smear your face with the blood of black fruits and strip to your white underclothes. You craft wooden implements with your hairy muscular arms and tinker with your fingers, twin spiders at play. And you crouch in the heart of the brutal forest floor, the canopy above casting spectral rays of yellow life, waiting for a skittering of fur, a flight of feather, to snatch out of the green danger.

Haiku of the Day:

Thought, caught in the throat,

wriggles with fetal longing

and decides to stay