Discovered I'm carving my initials on a tree with a pocketknife my father gave me yesterday. My first tool. My first weapon. I'm leaving a hint of who I am here by force. I'm not killing the tree but what was that cry I just heard? Probably just a bird but it's a new one on me. Crow? Pigeon? No and no. GA --that's me, or part. I know who I am but if someone comes through these woods and doesn't know me then he won't know I cut these clues. But he'll know why, I suspect, and that's enough: as if I've put my mark on Nature--my copy -right. Yes (mean my initials), I own all you survey. Not just this one tree but all its brothers and, by extension, the earth and sky, bushes and briars and flowers, birds and squirrels and stray cats and dogs and whatever other creatures wander through, including the character who pauses here and finds the owner of this forest. Not that he would know where to look. Chance...
Like the title says.