The Song of Undergrowth

By Rebekah Booth

the air is thick

and still,

smells of rot and

old rain.

it growls with the

timbre of 

thunder, the occasional bloom

of pale

lightning;

and yet there

is movement

and color in the

trills of

young birds, because though

nature tries

to smother, life yearns

to breathe.

you will find an old bridge

in the woods.

discolored, half-rotted, and

scattered

with dead leaves.

sit

for a moment.

close your eyes.

feel the air against you,

listen to the whisper of

rain,

the bone-deep rumble

of thunder.

breathe.

By Rebekah Booth