I'll call it a forest. Not a jungle.
Wild, cold, often dark.
More moonlit than sunned.
The ancient trees that inform me now
were not yet born then. Nor their grandparents.
Nor their kind, really -- something else,
smaller, elder, silent, brittle in the chill.
Green, but in the grayish way of evening.
A wolfish place, if wolves existed.
Bears, tigers, their sabor-toothed ancestors.
They were there, if not seen.
Yet I was alone -- me, the me that was.
Alone, under half-moon light,
Alone in bone-chilled night, alone.
Running. Not fast, but away.
Still on the move, still alone,
uncovered, briefly, in winter clarity.
There. My eyes. My aching.
There. And no mistaking who.
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