Hidden in the Woods

Stalkers and death crawlers,
we know they wait in the dark
woods where a womb folds
inside a tree trunk to hold
the tomorrow’s birth in bark.

We ignore them, move past
when a forest cracks its knuckles
and bony twigs hold up a finger
of warning betides, what was learned
in the arch-silences of winters

when their mouths watered,
their eyes salted in wind,
feet gone stiff with wandering,
skeleton fused to stone
after longtime seeking

the grace of grazers,
spry and fleet footprints
on earth hard
from trampling.