I maunder through the dewy evergreens soon to be covered in frost.
Raindrops rattle the leaves,
and blue-grey gnatcatchers chirp near the towering treetops.
My shoes sink into the soppy mud as I trudge through the chilling, hazy stratus. These woods are where I wander.
A straggle of branches weaves the sides of a narrow dirt path, but I go where intention leads, pushing through lush foliage. I breathe in hints of cool, fresh eucalyptus,
like steam after a hot shower.
Something scurries in the undergrowth,
the thump of rabbit feet scampering into a burrow before they are all lost to the drop in degrees. They’ll be back after the icy winters defrost,
but I’ll be here all year long
for these woods are where I ponder.
I find an opening where the sun slips between the cracks of the treetops, and I sit beneath it leaning against the rough trunk of a dark oak tree.

Shivering slightly, I exhale with a cloudy breath. I can see my house from where I rest.
The brick walls are covered in ivy,
and beanstalks grow all around where seeds were once cast. Billows of smoke rise from the chimney,
Lost is how I’m perceived,
Though here I am found. I never want to leave.
Only the woods know where I wander.
The wet forest floor dampens my trousers as I sit, mud oozing over my legs and taking my hands with it, down and down,
going home.