Redwoods

I spent spring break in Humboldt County, California. I fell in love with the massive redwoods, the green, the mistiness, the saturation, the abundance of flora.

 A forest uses the air's gift of water. Thrives on every drop, beams and glows a browner brown. Moist to the touch. Inebriated. I, intoxicated with fog, mist, redwood cologne, am aware of myself, aware of my tininess.

 What do I do with water? I cannot harvest it, I do not soak it in and embrace it. I hide from it. I layer myself to keep the wet off my skin, my barkless skin. I do not beam or glow or exalt int he rain. But the redwoods' joy is enough for me.

I become embarrassed, humble. They, the redwoods, sense this and I swear, their bark glows an even browner brown. Mist turns to rain. I sigh.