Once I lived in a nest. It was secure, well-padded, built of bric-a-brac I’d collected over the years. Now I’ve moved into a treehouse. Wind blows through this house, carrying filaments of summer’s end: fog of morning, scent of cedar, bark of dog, shadow of leaf. Branches have grown through this treehouse, in careful regard of one another, I suspect. Sheddings of fir and spruce and pine and cedar and gooseberry, stink current, huckleberries red and blue, and some kind of ivy, and even cherry.
Stem to root, their tendrils gently assume the contours about the remnants of past houseguests. Treehouseguests.
Because we are houseguests, curious creatures waking up in treehouses, you and me.
That’s the idea.