Photo (edited) by Don Bergquist, 2010
I remember this place, the smell of damp earth and petrichor, where I’d lay myself down to hide inside myself, small as a bug. And there’s a pulse, I hear it rushing in my ears—is it mine? Yes. My pulling in, of antennae and feelers, blunts other sounds: that of a bird scrabbling in rotten wood, playing hide-and-seek for keeps with root borers. Lights in the house glow brighter as the sun sets. Soon they’ll call me in to dinner, but I won't go.