I like to walk about the trees

of the old redwood rainforests.

I like the way the air feels,

it is a warm, comforting fog,

the water, of the ground, drawn and dredged.

I like the smells of the forest,

the rich life-after-death of the rotting wood,

the dung of the animals that live there.

I like the flavors that come to mind,

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an aged smokey bacon, lathered in syrup,

is what I think it should taste like.

I like the redwoods' bark, it looks, it feels

both real and not, as if an old tapestry,

masterfully spun of rough twine.

I like the towering red—monoliths,

if not for their ubiquity—and yet still

they stand they stand tall with pride.

I like their hum, words and whispers,

carried by the shrill, shrieking, howling wind,

lies the hymn of myth and tales forgotten.

I like how the trees look upon the forest,

as if grandparents, watching their child's child's play,

in the old park they too once wandered.