The giant sequoias strain at 122 metres, gravity pulling down their thirst for light. No more for you, wood tower. Down here in the undergrowth, we settle up to our height, our eyes finding their perspective; over heads or under chins. The unsatisfied attach synthetic skins, elevators, tilting into baby walking again, negotiating balance, gravity cheating. Perspective uprooted, heel and toe become foreigners again. Uncomplaining rivercrack feet carry me through these miles, to moments forgotten and unbelievable. Through forests intimidating, over streets ablaze. Walking small, talking tall, trying to be true to my ruled self. By metre by mile, exchanging oxygen for memory, all until we're finalized, chopped, soiled, splintered into root food.