A breeze flows through the canopy. A second ago, everything was still and quiet, now something is stirring. Noises everywhere, rhythmically bouncing between the trees. Is it a symphony? Is it a choreography?

Every leaf has a consciousness of its own. Every flower is a poem. Someone steps into a clearing and is struck by the illuminated spiderweb hanging as if on display in the tall grass. Something is shifting, changing. Weather or mood. Take cover underneath a fir tree. Can you break through the forest of symbols? Are you lost forever?

The forest is a collective of beings, of wills and desires. A place of mysteries and hidden treasures. Underneath the fern, underneath the thick wet feather moss. Meandering paths not to be trusted except with your life. The trees seem to stand individually, tall and proud, but underneath the visible everything is connected. Exchange of water, nutrients, care. Trees become paper, paper become books. Perceptions become words, words become poems. Things become symbols and symbols live a life on their own, transported through the underground railway of mycelia.

How is it that we see something and think of something else? How can we look at a thing and actually see it? How can the forest be made of symbols and at the same time be made of trees, moss, brushwood, ferns? Is there a glade where we can meet with the world, inside and outside suspended? Is the glade made out of words?

Oh language, wood of words, where I lay myself to rest each morning.