Auburn
Daylight is loud. Birds screams slip through the tightly shut windows. Wind bellows all around the house. Everyone is awake. Everyone is alive. Once night comes, I sleep hard enough that the entire wilderness is ... silence. Pure and beautiful silence. Nothing to be afraid of. Nothing to wish for. Nothingness. Glasslike in its simpleness, the reality of abyss. No darkness, no light, just the black splotch that ends each phrase. Red splots my hands as I pluck berries from the underbrush. I place them into my basket and ignore the juices seeping into the moss that I kneel upon. I sometimes reach down and touch the moistened moss, rub my hands over it; it's warm. As it dries it leaves my hands an auburn-y red. I rinse my hands under the sink and watch as the auburn races down into the drain. I try to replicate the auburn with the juice of the raspberries, but it is always too sweet a red. ...