The Pines (Plantation)

The outbreath of the plants hangs around their bodies
Blue, pale beyond duck egg
Here I find a spot to sit in the fragrant rot
In the air that tickles my lungs with cold and chemical.
My friends long rode away.
Cross-legged, I listen with the nerves in my skin for the faintest rumble,
That is his approach.
Though he walks softly, his titanic size creates thunder as he goes
Full of lush greens and deep browns
He is moss and wood and stone and bone and mushroomed flesh
So gently, he holds out his hand
And among the dirt and wood and decay
Is a rusty can.
I take it home, it is good to keep the forest clean.