Gabriel David Carter

There are no roads here.

I walk the path less traveled to see more of the flowers in bloom. I think trees are beautiful.

I’ve seen city streets without one tree.

And I ask, where are all the ancestors watching over us?

Mother trees whisper grief, telling young sprouts not to grow here. So city blocks are barren with dead leaves seeking nutrients, and needles line alleyways, choking arteries like gutters needing cleanings and downpours.

I’ve seen many souls scared of forest sounds and tiny little insects, which lull me to sleep like late-night lullabies.

Here, the fearful drive with no eyes and bright lights while thumbs type last words like bullets—gnats against the lantern’s flame.

Violin strings play in the treetops, drowned out by lightning trapped in wires—a cacophony of currents, music to many: electrified, puffed up, and proud.

Take me back to the forest…