The Call of the Woods

The forest does not wait to be entered.

It leans forward,

a green-breathed presence

pressing against my skin,

guiding my step deeper

than I thought I would go.

The leaves hold their silence,

but it is not stillness.

It is watching.

It is listening.

Every twig that snaps underfoot

is answered by a shifting shadow,

a whispering branch,

a breath not my own.

I carry no horn,

yet the call has been sounded.

I feel it in my blood,

in the way the path narrows

to a throat of thorns,

in the way the air gathers

like a bowstring drawn,

trembling before release.

I am not hunter alone—

the woods pursue me, too.

Their roots tighten around my ankles,

their branches beckon me forward.

I do not know what I seek,

only that I am already bound

in the chase.

The forest hums its answer:

Enter. Seek.

What you find will not be what you name.