“‘I like the woods,” she said. ‘In them, the possibilities seem endless. They are where wild things are, and I like to think the wild always wins. In the woods, it doesn’t matter that there is no patch of earth that has not known bone, known blood, known rot. It feeds from that. It grows the trees. The mushrooms.’
‘It turns sorrow into flowers.’
They both sat down, sweaty arm to sweaty arm. They remained until the woods were black but for patches of moonlight. The remained until they could hear the night calls of one thousand living things, screaming their existence, assuring the world of their survival.
Vern screamed back.”
A Burd in Flight 