The god of the forest walks Manhatten at night. The roaches turn their antennae to the sound of the wind. The streetlamps flicker. Fireflies take over. The cats–no dogs,they’re practically people–with their slow obsequiousness deign to stretch like bowing. Possums sing like birds. Birds sing like birds. Flies and lesser vermin turn their heads. Mice poke out from mouseholes to pay homage. Owls spread their wings. Coming up Broadway like owns the place–he does–the forest god struts in his tumescent glory, glowing black against the twilight sky, naked and tall, with a deer’s face, so serene.

The people and the dogs think he’s just another homeless guy, avert eyes, and think they live in an urban space: artificial and impossible for forests.


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