And we passed the place
where we weren’t supposed to go
A hidden corner
on a rare chilly morn
Crunching of foot upon acorn husks
and withered needles of pine
She kicked sawdust
on me unknowingly
And he could neither
be still nor quiet
A spiderweb clinging
to the last branch outstretched
The hawk gliding high above
keeping a close eye
This is where we found
the dying babes of the forest
The wind tumbling them
to their last breaths
But this is where we sang an old song
I did not know you knew
And held hands distended
in our wooden circle
in the land of the fallen trees.
Busted Flip Flops 