I read the other day that the total mass of human-made material on this planet is now bigger than all living things combined. More concrete than trees, more plastic than land.

Maybe they missed something, though, like maybe they forgot to look here. 

They must not have seen the black-hole of the bear, sleeping, or the loon while she swallowed the night. Or the fireflies, the lit ones, just over there. 

Who can count the silence of the deep forest anyway. Size is just as slippery as time when you try to grasp it. Take the mountain 

so big you can only see one face at a time and then climb it head to toe to know its bigness. And the red squirrel,

who fits neatly in your palm, so light he’s barely there—but he will tell you he’s a giant and you’ll believe him. 

And what’s bigger than the human heart beside the river—bare back to a warm stone—feet in cold green water.

We can try to put our finger on what is wild about this place with words and measures. We can say it’s sun-rosed and windswept and fertile, we might deem the boulders granite, we might call the valleys home—

but how can we know the true size of it all?

-Jenna Rozelle