You stand there with your gums grinning. Your pink shirt growing short as you grow long. I stand on your thick shoulders, toes clenching collarbones, heels dug in the nape. Together we stand tall like the woods of Maine. Conifers caked in snow, dark eyed birch, a single lane highway, guardrails gone, between the walls of evergreen, we wander, through Litchfield, Rangeley and Carrabassett. We sway in the wind. Your hoodlum hat falls to your feet, six feet and three inches down and your hair is no longer bound. Stay a little longer. Let the fog rolls in on little cat feet. Brother-Bandit royal with benevolence. I follow you to the woods, and you say it’s always good to work on your calluses, and I do what you do and rub my hands with sap. Our pink nostrils flair at sap’s crooked sent: smoke and moss. Together we stand tall like the woods of Maine. Steady. The day drifts and we become the pink woods.