As the branches stabbed the skin of his chest and shredded his trousers. Dying on the pinwheel of a knife throwers cross. Hurtling himself downward. His knees gave out and buckled. He fell face-first to the floor of the forest.
Arms spread like a dirt crucifixer.
Hugging and hanging on to the spinning Earth and its untethered trajectory. Swirling in the universe. He lay there. Gasping for air. Then something rustled in the bush.