i seem to exist

there are nothing but questions.
as to who i am and what the rain sounds like on tin roofs.
i am nothing but
an empty sound, a gourd.
i am waiting for the singing of magpies,
i am waiting for the trains calling softly.
the forest is green after a wet night,
and it opens as we fall behind the sun;
a whistle blows, the bark grows.
are your knees as scabbed as mine?
the blood has dried for now,
only to flow again under the tired trees.
moss is underfoot, a cushion for aching bodies.
does your body ache?
berries stain the mouths and skin,
and i move to go no where.
i only go, and you follow,
the pine needles falling.