The Cedarville Review 2020

PROSE | 47 The woods back home seem small to me now. Back then they were self-sufficient, whole, take anything away or add anything to them and they would become less perfect. Trees and shadows. The gloaming, the waxing moon obscured partially by the naked branch- es, an angel through dungeon bars. The barred owl with the pretty baby mouse locked eternal- ly in its talons. Beauty through death. I hopped from log to soft rotten log over the swamp. My landing pad crumbled under my ten-year-old frame, sending one sneaker plung- ing into the stagnant mud with a splut. Momen- tum carriedme on, God’s dark glue holdingmy sneaker behind. Mum yelled at me this time, but I hosed off my brand new black shoe and returned to my world, the world. The bullfrog I startled at high noon. I tried to find it again and again but never did—only the green tree frogs. Then I didn’t need a book to know God. I skinned my knee pretty bad when I hopped the freshwater creek and misjudged how slick the rocks would be. My blood mingling with the creek. It looked like diluted tomato juice. Nonfiction ETERNAL WOODLAND BRENDAN ROWLAND