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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