You mumble when the words are giant on your tongue. You mean more than you say and say less than you mean. You stand in the hollow of a burnt out whale and hunch your shoulders. You understand the height of a tree, the need for it. You find the fact of a hollow stump foreign; when the spark flared, smoldered, and went out, you were not there. You are seeing the sky, smelling the spice of dry wood rot and needles. You are wondering as your eyes adjust to the light, to the trunk of the decaying tree. You do not know what you are wondering. You sit down, cross-legged in the floor of the hollow, absently poking pine needles into your knees.