The trees are packed in tight,
their trunks rough and dark.
The ground’s soggy in spots,
leaves squish underfoot.

It smells like pine and wet earth,
and the only noise is the occasional bird call.
Mostly, it’s just quiet,
except for your boots crunching
through the fallen leaves.

The light’s low,
just enough to see the path.
The wind shifts the branches,
but nothing’s in a hurry here.

You move ahead,
slow,
because there’s no need to rush.
The woods don’t mind if you stay a while,
let the silence settle in.

In the distance,
a creek’s soft murmur breaks through,
water slipping over stones,
another sound added to the quiet.

But for now,
it’s just you,
the trees,
and the steady rhythm
of your steps.