rooted

I am in rut. 

in a groove
so long it’s not 
possible to determine
if I'm following
or being 
followed. 

the sun always
finds me waiting
for it to warm
this tract, 
worn and
winding with edges
soft enough 
to keep
me cradled. 

to keep me safe. 

any
wandering outside,
along the topside, 
is short lived-
I don’t like
to demystify 
for the scrum,
this emotion
of being 
more satisfied
than settled. 

wanderers and
seekers 
pass by,
disturb my leaves,
scuff my stones,
bend and break
my blades of
grass. 

and
all the while
my rabbit sense 
of
predatory presence-
a vibrant florid
hunger for 
escape-
holds me
still.

some see 
oddity
in the way 
I loll 
in the ruffage, 
my hands 
buried deep 
in the loam. 

but to 
my nose and eyes,
a long
measure of the 
proportionate
balance in
clay, sand,
and silt
can only be
achieved
surrounded
in burrow.

gravity both 
pulls me towards 
the ground,
under its
leafy carpet, 
and draws my hands
to my face
to scry
the forest's
pulse.

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