By Felicia Bedford

Turned over rocks.

Broken limbs.

A well-trodden path,

That I continue to find beauty in.

Even the dead or dying parts.

It’s always been something,

About the frost and cold.

Or the dripping hot.

That forced me into wooded solitude.

The little creek,

That runs in muddy clear.

Laps up against my feet.

Causing a jolt

Against my nervous system.

It’s grounds me,

To see it all.

It sends me back home.

To my own woods.

I feel challenged,

To find my own little piece of familiar,

Everywhere I go.

Looking for mossy spores.

Looking for,

Peace?

Searching for,

Myself.

Will I find her,

Out there

In the thicket.

It’s impossible to say.

But I know,

That if forced to choose,

I’d go back,

Before this land we now have

Took shape.

And I would live amongst the animals.

Felicia Bedford is a sophomore Biology major at Duquesne, where she also studies creative writing. She intends to complete Duquesne's English MA after Undergrad. Her work can also be seen in the D.U. Quark.