City

Dawn. A hand of sunlight spreads

between the hundred-foot pines

pushing pale fingers to the blue-green

ground. The gold ghost eases into

aquamarine as sun-flecked ferns

bounce and curl around a mossy

stump. They make a glowing mist

in the deep viridian shadow. Fists

of mushrooms the color of hot coals

crowd the rotten wood.

.

There’s no hard ground here. Each

step sinks a little on centuries of

soft needles and decomposing leaves.

.

The state calls this forest a “cathedral.”

We know it’s a city. In the trail mud, signs

of a busy intersection–bobcat, raccoon and deer–

a bear and her child walked here looking

for a place to eat.

.

We’re tourists among the skyscrapers,

clumsy gawkers and picture-takers. We

teeter on the unfamiliar terrain, jostle

past with cameras and bags while

the patiently annoyed residents take

side streets to avoid us.

.

Bird traffic rings and whistles in the

branched canopy as we wander among

the laurel, through its alleys and

walkways.

.

Those who live here marvel and

complain about what it takes to

sustain us: ice cream, fire, electric

guitars.

.

And we strangers on these streets

watch amazed at the inhabitants,

their exotic cuisine and odd habits.

We say it’s beautiful here but “I

could never live in this place–I’d

always be lost.”

.

This was submitted for Read Write Poem Prompt #34.