Sleep Away The Past

The underbrush wasn't as thick here. It made walking easier but his pack still got hung up on every other branch and soon he called a halt. He trampled down the grass, kicked at the saplings until they bent away from the assault and he pulled twenty-five feet of vines off to the side to expose the dark and damp soil upon which he spread the canvas.
It took less time to put up the tent and tie it off, and when his sleeping bag was tucked away he sat on the corner of his new home, at least for the night, and rolled himself a cigarette.
As the darkness came on he listened to the sounds of the forest and stared into the shadows cast by the small light he allowed himself. The sway of the trees cast mottled and moving images on the backdrop of leaves and in the undulating illumination he could make out faces that smiled and winked at him until his eyes grew heavy and he crawled inside the tent to sleep.
Wrapped in the sleeping bag, tucked inside the tent, folded into the trees and blanketed with the blue and black sky he whispered his goodnights and sighed away the anger of the waking world until he slipped away, leaving no watch and giving no thought to the wheezing, creaking sounds that mimicked his breathing and was asleep before the trees bent themselves towards the malice and hatred he exhaled into the night.