In wild and wicked woods, I walk.
Convinced the winds carry strange talk.
In grumbles heard — no meaning grasped —
faux whispers won’t tell — only squawk.

The voiceless voices make it wicked.
I’m surrounded by a dense thicket.
I hear what’s not there — seeing naught.
I catch, I think, just one snippet…

“get-gone”

Oh why would woods say such a thing?
I feel it like a toxic sting.
Be still, that beating in my chest.
The bile, in throat, is now rising.

I only sought a forest bath,
but incurred this old forest’s wrath.
Oh, what have I interrupted,
while trodding down this ill-worn path?