Sunday in the Woods

Benjamin Niespodziany

Her cloak is earth and science. His skin is myth and bear. In each of her pockets, she keeps leaves, seeds, stems, friends. He has no pockets and this makes him sad. She says not to worry and draws pockets on his fur. She tries to be polite. She gifts him a sweater of snow but the sweater of snow does not accept him. Cannot accept him. “The sun is a wrinkled sun,” he says. The birds are always going, always doing nothing, always singing. Poor, poor things. “We’re even,” she says. She takes his sweater of snow and she eats.