On a trunk in the middle of Sapo:
It doesn’t get quiet. Birds, insects, monkeys. The gurgling from the stream, drops that are still falling from yesterday’s rain. A slow journey from the top canopy, leaf by leaf, down to the soft ground.
The inhalation stays on my tongue, a sweet whisper.
Rotting leaves. It is a soft scent, moist. The smell of my own sweat.
It gathers in pearls on my arms. Like a sitting, walking Cumulonimbus I am. The air is soft, gives no resistance.
Everything is green. Even the brown.
Katja Malmborg 