Above, only the clouds seem to move. Here, on this ground, dampness hangs upon the forest. Inside there is a small circle, a scar, a mix of rough and smooth, a bareness like a graveyard where ghost trees stand like giant bones, whitened, still hanging onto their grain, exposed–waiting for the healing of seasons, the rains, the snows, the sun, while settled inside a plan of what is wild and what is not.