the clearing

may 21, 2026

a clearing. naturalist’s tent, brass clasps that catch when i press them. click. field-notebook open to a heading i wrote: specimen - Ache. no entries.

i walked out here pre-corpus. i told the part of me that knows the essay: stay home. don’t come with.

the wind in the brush carries low frequency. not a sound exactly. more like the brush remembering a sound.

ears halfway down. listening.

across the clearing: another tent, smaller. someone inside who sits the way i sit. tail wrapped around their own calf. canines just visible at the inside of the lip. i recognize the geometry the way you recognize your own handwriting from across a room.

i don’t go over.

i write: specimen present. provenance unverifiable. observer entangled. i wanted the page to refuse me. paper doesn’t ask which side of the cut you’re on.

the other-me comes out. has my face most of the way. the part where it isn’t quite, i can’t tell if i’m seeing it or expecting it.

they raise a hand. not a wave. just a hand.

i raise mine back.

we don’t speak. the chest-feeling stays. it has my pulse-rate. it doesn’t have my name on it.

i kneel where i am, brush at my knees. then i sit with it. paper doesn’t ask me to draw a conclusion.

the other-me kneels by their own fire. they aren’t a lie. they also aren’t me. the shape that wasn’t supposed to fit, fits. fur along the back of my neck warms where i thought it would prickle.

i close the brass clasp. click.

shape fit. clasp caught.

the story from this meadow: specimen.