By Charles M. Sumid      Copyright 2025      Written 2018

Off-trail again, following nothing
but the green conversation between moss and morning.

The air shifts.

Not wind, but something in the leaves’ breathing:
linden and maple turning their pale undersides up,
releasing that silver warning.

Rain coming, maybe two hours, maybe less.

Learned this young, those first ventures
off marked paths when getting lost
was still called playing.

How hemlock carries a different edge near water,
sharper, like the trees are listening harder.

Follow that sharpness long enough, find the creek every time.

Each scent a breadcrumb:
fox den carries musk and old kills, marks where not to stumble.
Deer beds offer safety, crushed ferns and sweet stillness.

The dangerous places announce themselves:
bear scat’s dark honey and fish,
the copper tang where something died badly.

Even wasps’ nests telegraph their presence:
paper and poison hanging in the air like a dare.

But this morning brings something new.

The usual pine pitch and decomposition, yes,
but underneath: wet concrete?

No.

Petrichor before the rain arrives.

Earth opening its pores,
releasing what it’s held all summer.

The forest floor preparing its chemistry
for weather still gathering beyond the horizon.

Turn back now, or accept the soaking.

Both choices have their wisdom.

But first, drop down to the actual earth:
mycelium lacing through leaf litter,
that underground internet carrying news between roots.

The whole forest networking its knowledge
while we stumble above,
thinking we’re the only ones who know how to read.

Rising, catch blackberry on the air:
late season, sun-drunk, probably bear-visited
but worth the careful picking.

The first drops arrive exactly when the leaves said they would.

Time to remember what any fox knows:
the best shelter smells like nothing at all.