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Beneath the Ridge

by Johnny Packer
Chapter 1
Morning found me staring at the trail
as if the dream had carved it fresh.
The dirt looked darker than I recalled,
soft, almost breathing,
like something waiting underneath.

I told myself it was folly,
but my feet knew otherwise.
They carried me past the old markers,
past the bend where the shale sings,
past every place I swore would anchor me.

The new pines rose exactly
where sleep had placed them
tall, quiet, watching.
Their bark held patterns
that looked too deliberate,
as if written by a hand older than memory.

I stepped inside
and the air folded around me,
cool and sweet,
like a greeting from someone
I had once loved dearly
and buried poorly.

The forest did not move,
yet I felt followed.
The ground pulsed faintly
under each step,
matching my heartbeat
just a breath too late.

Somewhere deeper,
a sound circled,
not wind,
not water,
but something rehearsing my name
in a voice I could almost place.

I kept going,
because the trail behind me
was already gone,
and the trees ahead
had begun to open a path
only for me.

I told myself I was dreaming still.
Yet the scent of pine was real enough,
and the quiet was the kind
that listens back.

I do not know where this ends.
But the forest seems relieved
that I finally arrived.