Where the Wild Things Were

We retreat to the spines of mother earth. We find solace in the shouting leaves of the grove of black oak trees that forest her flanks. We seek a higher meaning on the bare earthen peaks of her breast. In a foiled attempt to descend her steep unsteady slopes, we instead discover the microcosmic world in the heart of a ring of oak trees. We let our hearts beat free and hard as we struggle to follow the deer trail through the thickets of manzanita and poison oak. The torturous scrapes and rashes of the brittle branches and shiny leaves are an appropriate response to the clear-cuts of the previous decades. We stripped the skin from her flesh and the dirt bled red. From the bloodied earth arose these shrubs of vengeance, to make our skin bleed and weep.

Over-Exposed