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Sleeping in Trees

Sleeping in trees brings the language of lizards and ants up close to the ear. Something always returns to me at these times brought back through a scent, where roots grab earth, or the way a brushed hard break of my skin does as I climb the oak’s gravelly bark. I lie there alone dangling without talk. I listen all night as the outdoor music lifts and rhymes. Frogs cicadas crows sound their memories out loud, branches become backbones tuned for lullabies so tender that the small delicate secrets curled up in moss seep out into dreams dusted into breezes. Then I become like lichens humming down streams or like the pale pink opossum next to me sleeping in trees.