By Terry Belew

I could describe the intricacies
of moss,

the way leaves push

in summer,
a birch sapling cowering
beneath a parent,

a fox
in a hollowed-out tree,
how the light shines
through foliage.

None of that matters.

Just north, there is a tower’s
blinking strobe. 

I take a picture
of a caterpillar 
because I know someone 

who would like that. I smell the fresh 

clear-cut before I see it
and I’m not appalled, 

I just look
down into my hands 
to find where I am.