Not mountains with boulders and peaks and crags, but a hump of earth higher than most. Some hills have been pulled apart by wind and moved into sturdy mounds. Others sprout from underground. Hills are for ambling up in hooves, or snowshoes, or bare feet. For sitting atop without bum abrasions. For castle dwellers who want to avoid floods. For deer or elk or buffalo to stand atop, to graze and gaze from, to gauge the horizon for enemies. The hill could be a mountain’s grandfather or a grandfather’s hill. Over time, hills soften, growing out of their rocky obstacles. Short grasses and clover pad feet and knees and paws. If you’re a human, you can drop to your side and strap your arms around your chest. On hills, arms can get in the way, can slow the momentum when rolling the body down in clumsy tumbles.
The Knot
The knot took me outside, back to its rooted wood, with bark threads and moss and lichen. I climbed up its truck without ropes or spiked shoes and swung from its branches. I was all hair and ape with sticks in my fingers for boring bug holes. The knot lured me down from its canopy, onto wet dirt. I shed hair there, from my arms, then my legs, from my belly and breasts. Only the hair on my head remained, tangled in leaves and mud.
Sawdust
Some musings on wood - now up on Plant-Human Quarterly.