The Backwoods

Stay out of the woods.
There the spring is soft
as fiddleheads reach
upward. Air ambles
in fog and pollen and
imprints left around
the roots of giant pines.
The backwoods, they’re
called; and they call
back, if you’re listening:
moans, grunts, or wails,
like something roams
between the trees and
leaves tufts of hair for us
to find and follow back,
further into the forest.
The stories go far back,
but unless you believe
in fiends, in ghosts, I
will leave the matter
alone.