The safety of the black, winding, snake of a trail is like an arrow pointing me home.

I flee from this serpent of tar, for the promise of discovery awaits me at the bottom of the hill.

I’m surrounded on all sides by the Sylvan Queen, her antlered familiars, and her army of trees.

I need only to march east to return to the realm of men and metal, but the woods beckon still.

I blanket myself under the brittle fallen leaves that have felt autumn’s kiss and gravity’s hand.

With hesitance, I find myself starting to give in to Gaea’s soft spell of slumber.

I hear the hymns of the birds in their language true and old.

I see the dreams of the cicadas painted vibrantly in the overcast sky.