Her fingers spread out, all snaky and bent. Her toes burrow down into gray sand. Her light cracks the ground. Clouds rumble. Drip, drip, drip, sprinkle down her drops.
The deep dark woods shudders with her ferocity. She is in it everywhere; it sways to her rhythm. This is no place for humans like me—only animals know this dance.
Vines tangle everything, tripping explorers. She rains down on the canopy in sheets, and the deep dark woods loves it. It is cleansing for her, but I am too disconnected from her to be cleansed. My clothes stick to me, her leaves stick to me. I am sticky and thunder is rattling me from inward and outward.
The deer—semi-domesticated, a vague connection between her and me—know the way, and left their trail. Back to houses and human baths. A house is here on her land, but closed off and sealed tight, even insured, against her.
