Fifth Element—M.K. Foster

When first the Eye this Forrest sees / It seems indeed as Wood not Trees:
—Andrew Marvell

So, your car’s knocked off the road up ahead? Bless your heart. Something leapt out, did it? Happens all the time here in Redwood, Alabama. The knocked-off car. And the leapt out. Never heard of us? Nestled between Brookwood and Fleetwood? Well, we don’t see much of anything anyway. Cut yourself good on that cracked windshield. Bless your heart. Just came out here for a nature walk? Trying to get away from it all? Must be dead-bird tired after all that. Well, got you knocked off the road in the right place, then. Plenty of peace in Redwood. Some say even the songbirds come here to sing themselves to sleep. Bless your heart, you look cold. Someone should pray for you, poor thing. Never heard of us here in Redwood? Can’t believe everything you hear, but probably should everything you don’t. Next, probably say there’s such a thing as birds and animals in the woods. Nothing around here for miles. Just songs and calls in these parts. Best stay on the path now. Shouldn’t go far if we’re going to get your car up and running. Best not to run out here either. Make something wanna prey for you. Stay on the path. Never heard of us here in Redwood? Or never told? Not that anyone tells the truth anymore. Bet they even taught you to name the birds and animals of the woods—but what of the woods? Knock on wood. Knocked off the road, were you? Something leapt out, did it? Didn’t see it, did you? Bless your poor little heart strangled in your poor little body. Where are you going? Knock on wood. Came out here all alone, did you? Bless your heart. See, there’s no such thing as birds and animals in the woods. Not here in Redwood. Not how you think. Knock on wood. And wood. And wood. Keep knocking. Knees knocking, teeth knocking. Knock on wood. They will open. Smooth and dark and deep. See, woods can mimic anything they prey for. Best not to run out here, bleeding as you are. There are no animals in the woods. But the woods have animals in them. Swallowed whole. Still alive. Calling and hollering. Clawing and crying. Song after song muffled under bark. Bless their hearts. Cut yourself again? Just falling all over the place. Told you not to run, poor bird, poor lamb. Tried running toward the sound of my voice? Poor little meat tangle, poor little bone sack. Woods can smell blood for miles, connected as we are. Not picky preyers either. Where are you going? I’m over here. And here. And here. And here. And here. And here. Run all you’d like.

photo by Faruk Tokluoğlu (via pexels)