The roar of bugs
has replaced the din of car engines.
The bees prey on our bacon.
The crickets conduct an orchestra.
My feet crunch,
they hop,
they burn from the rocks
warmed by the sun.
But they do not slap.
There is nothing flat here.

I touch an overhanging branch.
It is an act of worship.
The sun streams
through dappled leaves,
throwing a pattern on the pine needles
not unlike a stained glass window.
Leaves fall on my shoulders
like drops of holy water.
I bow my head
in this cathedral of trees.
My eyes cannot look directly into the sun.

But we are watchful,
careful not to step over logs
without looking,
to not leave any food out.
There is no glass
between me and nature.
It is, for now, more powerful than me.
There was a missing piece,
now clicked into place,
that assures me
this has precedence.
Not in my life,
but I feel my blood quicken
with the pace of instinct.

It is not easy here.
Nothing is gifted.
My shoulders ache,
my mouth is dry,
my hairline itches.
My body works in extremes.
Simplicity is satisfying,
in a way it never has been.

It is not easy.
But it is right.