Leave your shoes under the gnarled roots by the forest door.
Race to the top of the first rise. Let your feet fly down the belly of the first valley. A taste of the last wild raspberries slow your pace.
Feel it all: the steady foot falls on velvet sand, the coolness under foot.
Dance your way up and over the boulder ridge, scattering the snakes and toads from their morning naps.
Hear every leaf rustle in the brush as you creep silently through thickets and under the sumac groves.
Spot the rabbits nibbling on wild carrots and chicory and chase the squirrels from their trees.
Know the sound of your own breathing, move with the drumming of your heart.
Catch the scents of water and wood and grasses.
Be here. Be here now and be there then with those ancient ones, those first ones. From the soil they were made, and so are you made. From their dust, your blood and bones are made.
Their spark is your spark
if you go into the woods today