When the Forest Held Its Breath

The forest inhales—

.

no,

not chance,

not wind,

but ribs drawn tight,

branches locked mid-breath.

.

I stop.

Or the path stops me.

Or the hush—

fine as spider silk—

threads itself across my mouth.

I taste dust,

a dryness older than bark,

older than birdsong.

.

No wingbeat,

no leaf.

Even the air refuses to move.

My shoe grinds into the dirt

too loud,

too human,

and my pulse

becomes the only creature

daring to stir.

.

Then—

a rustle,

faint, like a throat clearing,

like someone deciding

whether to speak.

.

The forest exhales.

.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Not release,

not forgiveness—

only the suggestion

that it might

let me go.