highlands

I wish to go to woods, that are wild enough you can see the shadow of neanderthals in them. I must see thrown on their brackish fur the handprints of the great ferns, cruelly green, half-baked in orange from the torch that cries primitive red rain into the cerulean bowls lain eaten into the soil. I must be able to spy the great dragonfly tiptoe with his infinite crawlers up and down the frond, each rustle of his smudged wings the urgent shudder of a cymbal. I should see on the ground fresh tracks with dark dips of water before them, where the animals’ waters ran from their mouths as they scrambled from the top half of the alligator lain upon dark water.