She stays below the tree line
to be unseen among the crowded saplings,
spruces, firs. She’d planned to hike,
invisibly, the breadth of the boreal biome
west to east, from her makeshift
Beringian home to a shielded shore.
She hasn’t left yet, though.
She even bought a house and paid
for a divorce. She’s calculating
how many moments in this synergetic forest
are reduced in rapture by each mosquito
that yaws towards her neck, by every plump,
green larvae swinging on white silk towards
her cheek. She’s still too human.
For every flower she learns,
she forgets two birds. She’s leaving
one day. She knows too many people now
and more are always coming.
The newcomers are especially fatiguing.
They pluck, pickle, build, run, ultra,
shoot, according to the season. She feels
the ricochets as she sits on a fallen log
to give the dog more woodland time.
While everyone is doing, she undoes.
First the clinging fingers of the earnest ex,
then an employer or two. She’s waterproofed
her boots and tightened her trekking pole.
The dog can come but no one else.