I move through mist where the birches fracture,
through the ache that pools in the marsh.
Above me, the sky splits—soft, wide—
a wound that does not close.

A crow circles overhead,
its wings carve the dusk
like a blade through velvet.
I follow where it flies—
over stone, through shadow—
until the wolves begin to howl,
not chasing, but calling.
Like a warning,
like a welcome.

The wind moves with antlers.
Frost clings to its breath like old bones.
It leads me down past time, past name,
into the throat of something waiting.

The stones remember sorrow.
The roots dream beneath my feet,
cradling every step,
as if they know I won’t leave unchanged.

Voices find me-
not in sounds, but in thistle,
wet with dew.
The air is thick with musk and moss.

I press my palms to the bark.
It answers.
A pulse stirs beneath the grain,
like hooves through mud.
The forest drinks from me-
not cruelly, but as if it’s waited
to be warm again.