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I Never Knew

by Johnny Packer
Chapter 1
I dreamed last night of the old trail,
the one my feet could follow even blind,
the switchback curve,
the shale that sings under heel,
the quiet bend where the wind forgets to breathe.

But the end was wrong.
A forest of pines stood where the ridge should be,
tall and close together,
their needles black with dew that shone like metal.

I stepped inside,
and the air thickened as if the trees
had been waiting to inhale.
Every branch leaned downward,
not to shade me,
but to listen.

Something moved between the trunks,
too slow for an animal,
too patient for a man.
It left no prints,
but the ground quivered
as though it had knelt there once before.

I called out a name I didn’t know I remembered.
The pines answered,
not with wind,
but with a low hum
that shook the dream at its roots.

When I woke,
the scent of the forest still clung to my skin,
and my boots were wet
with a dew that does not grow here.

I keep thinking I should go back.
I keep fearing I already did.