In the deepest part of midnight, you walk among the hidden creatures of the wood, the reflection of their eyes guiding you through the thickets.

The deer murmur the prayers of the tall grass, their low hushings travelling across the valley and turning heavy with magic.

The owl's watchful gaze never loses its hold on the back of your heels, making sure that you stay on the path you've chosen. A breeze disrupts the pattern of your footsteps, multiplied by the possums that walk upright in your wake.

Something talks with the voice of the trees, damp, tepid, stagnant and woeful, like a being trapped in engravings on the bark left by the ants and the nightwalkers alike.

In the distance, your mother calls your name. The loam and sand has already made itself into your bed and the moss covers your eyes as you sleep.

In the morning you wake in the stream with remnants of moondust and pollen clinging like lichen to the bareness of your skin.