The forest was long and song- less. All the animal calls had been cut down. They lay in stacks along the path: songbird bindle, parcel of foxes’ throats, packet of bobcat hollers. We tried to recall them but they wouldn’t come. Our own calls were hollow and numb in our necks, and what would come to that kind of call? The forest was very tall and all the trees hummed with some new hum we couldn’t name. It pinned us through the lungs. The air ambered around our arms as we swung them, walking. The air slowed and syruped and heavied our mouths like a tongue. We did not know how the forest became a museum, mausoleum, or when. We were still imagining the bird would respool itself, the fox refur and return, panting, to our hands. We were still imagining a clearing, a meadow, a door waiting for us somewhere at the end. Poor illusion. Poor selves, caught in our wooden cells. The forest was a forest so long ago it may not ever have been real.