"Kopachuck State Park"

In Kopachuck State Park, down the slick and well worn trail, past the bench with its expertly carved expletives, I walk beneath platter-sized leaves. Deadman’s island sulks offshore, a stump covered in stumps, covered in old growth.
This park is my closest ally. It is a mold from which I was unknowingly cast. I cannot make others see rotting wood and too-clean air as I do. But that midnight shade of the inside of a mussel shell is enough to lend anyone an epiphany.
I have created as many stories here as I have read. Once, I had forgotten my jacket. When it began to hail, I retreated. I was asleep in my car with a book in my lap when a park ranger tapped on the glass.
Other times, I braved the rain. I let it filter in through the trees as I read. When Huckleberry Finn rediscovers morality, he is a bird hopping gingerly across the sand. When Sherman Alexie describes his sister’s death, by alcohol and fire and trailer home, the violently colored leaves echo the heat of his sorrow.
Examining my surroundings, I often notice my similarity to barnacles on the underside of the trees. Dwelling in any opportunity, I spread, though always rooted home. I need fewer reminders of my color, acid yellows, stony greens, drowsy oranges, as I grow like the barnacles.
I throw off my shoes and wade into the frigid October water. I leap skyward, hitting the water. I slip and fall. In the water, I indulge in the shock and liberation of the bay.
My colors saturated, I am unafraid. I am baptized by the unexpected.

Open Letters

I felt the need to create a more suitable medium of expression about five minutes ago. My aging dog was crying in his sleep, and I realized that it is because it's past his bedtime. I put off my homework, and Bunkers suffers.

I'm sorry, Bunkers. You deserve my respect.
I wish you spoke English so that I could tell you.

For that, I am sorry.