I like to walk about the trees

  of the old redwood rainforests.

  I like the way the air feels,

  it is a warm, comforting fog,

  the water, of the ground, drawn and dredged.

  I like the smells of the forest,

  the rich life-after-death of the rotting wood,

  the dung of the animals that live there.

  I like the flavors that come to mind,

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  an aged smokey bacon, lathered in syrup,

  is what I think it should taste like.

  I like the redwoods' bark, it looks, it feels

  both real and not, as if an old tapestry,

  masterfully spun of rough twine.

  I like the towering red—monoliths,

  if not for their ubiquity—and yet still

  they stand they stand tall with pride.

  I like their hum, words and whispers,

  carried by the shrill, shrieking, howling wind,

  lies the hymn of myth and tales forgotten.

  I like how the trees look upon the forest,

  as if grandparents, watching their child's child's play,

  in the old park they too once wandered.