A fallen tree bridged the water always repeating the same sentence:
“If you fall off the bridge, today is the birthday of a fish.”
On the opposite bank, from another direction, it harped on:
“If you stay, today is the image’s wedding day.”
And the cloud (that the harsh treetop had scratched)
wrote on squared paper:
“Slice the tomatoes, chop the basil, pour the wine into the decanter
and think about those who sleep out of doors.”
The orienteerer found the checkpoints and crossed the bridge,
leaving the post office and the kiosks behind.
She was greeted by a great oak, these words carved on its trunk:
“If you touch me, today is the birthday of a marten.”
The forest had been strangled with the necktie of the road,
and that is the road the orienteerer took.
Gravel reviled her with every step, and the forest,
even the forest wouldn’t just be, but muttered:
“These turned into trees, these into animals, these into no-ones.”
It prayed to its memory, its stumps
were covered with moss and fragrant honey caps.
The fog dispersed,the body parts were revealed,
behind the pines another yard and game.
How sweetly the child sang,
squeezing a rolled bill and a shopping list in her hand,
always another list and another bill.
Few people watch out for such a siren.
The shadow of the orienteerer was cast over the toys,
and where then?