130708_03
here we are at the edge of the fern forest; further slowly rising waters choke roots without remission; at any other moment I would not wade through the mess of in between states of being; even the smell is mephitic enough that lighting a match might just set up another light much bigger nearer; my trek in there was a one in a lifetime; I have returned to find the whole thing drowned and rotting; beavers have got themselves a more secure home.
Published Friday, July 19, 2013 by henri durand
2 pages