Aranas

Two trails to Flatrocks. The farthest I've walked a couple of times with friends. But now that the mouth of this other trail stares at me, there is no turning back. My feet are held by handfuls of hardened mud on the roots of Balóbo and Palák-palák. I slowly lower the sole of my sandal onto one of them, trusting it won't let me slip or fall. I grip a makeshift handrail a forester may have hammered into the trunk of this young tree. When the stairs of soil and roots vanished, Aranas appeared—the broken brick pipes that once carried water from the mountain to the university. I followed the line and wondered when, exactly, we give up on things and decide never to touch them again. The pipes ran straight ahead, somehow assuring me I was being guided, perhaps by something like the ghost of prewar waterworks. But eventually the pipes ended, and the path was no longer as clear as before. Soon, I found myself standing on the bank of the Molawin River. Looking upstream, where I was supposed to continue, I saw that a colossal White Lauan had split in half, its upper trunk fallen from above, smashing the concrete path and plunging headfirst onto the boulders strewn across the river. "Kristine's work," I muttered to myself as I made my way back to Aranas, head bowed. A disappointment like this could make anyone lose their bearings. After finding my way back to the pipes, I realized I had forgotten the steps that led to the makeshift handrail. Incessant attempts brought me to a slope peppered with dark loam, browned leaves, and rotted branches. Before me, another dead tree blocked the way. After hearing a motorcycle passing somewhere above the slope, I hurried upward, crawling, impatience driving my hands and feet. I buried fingers in soil and mud, grabbed vine and rock, rammed knees and feet against whatever.

mandibles buried in a palm
in a forest in January
a piercing cry