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I remember racing into the woods up over the hill behind my parents’ house. High summer smell of baked pine needles — spills we called them — brittle under my bare feet, ready to ignite. I run fast, heedless, headlong until my childshape on the ground looks like a blur of movement.
Deeper into the forest, sunshine is a sliver of light among fir trees. It glints on the sparkling, dark water rushing over wet rocks, absorbed by green spongy moss. I feel transmuted from child to earth and light and air.
Far behind me, a voice like the treetop crow calls what might be my name, if I stop to listen. The caretaker with mouth full of black-feather don’ts and can’ts caws in the breeze, just a muffle now as I dart along the stepping stone path, remnant of sunken rock walls that once separated plowed fields from wildflower pasture.
Ahead rises half-moon bridge over the creek, out of sight of the watcher, the careful keeper of heedless children. The decaying bridge is not meant to be stepped on shoeless. It leaves a trace of ancient tree in the sole of my foot. I dangle my wound in the cold water, sit still enough to settle the birds to song again.
Lengthening shadows arrow me toward home. I straggle in. The frantic child-minder soaks and pricks and tweezes the splinter of my freedom.
Much discussion at supper. You have to come when called. You need a companion when you go into the woods. You must be afraid and watch your step and wear shoes.
lamp over table
turns world outside a dark square —
sliver of moon
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