pilgrimage to the first chakra of the world

in the woods there is a blanket of stillness, silence, crisply punctured by birdsong. the rain falls in musical patterns on the tent. packing your home the size of 2 gallons of water, but with a weight like packed leaves. fruit, nuts, berries. do you carry fire, water, shelter, your bed, waterproof skin, home, tools? carabineers, rope, handkerchiefs, plastic bags to put wet clothes or “pack it in, pack it out” created garbage. leave no trace. the scent of decomposing leaves washed clean by the rain. my spirit balloons into the open air. this is the mouth of the womb of the world. this mountain is pink and red, ‘basalt’ A.C. tells me, and she rocks, so she knows. grandmother rock supports me and trees float on narrow shelves of rock. the echoes of coyotes lap up the rock and ghosts answer on the mountain. lichens a growing multicolored language on rocks like dark meteorites not borne of this world. lightning arcs like strobe lights, illuminating the threads of branches and the undersides of leaves. thunder rumbles like a snoring dragon in the sky.