Folks in the academy say it is sentient.

It is the sentinel

Of the woods.

But it seemed serene and still, slightly swinging 

to the serenade of the wind.

That’s why the young man ventured in 

Without hesitation.

He strided, printing his mark

On the wet earth below.

Folks in the academy came looking for him,

But he was already gone. 

Half a footprint was found, barely distinguishable

From the wet earth below.

The tides were cleansing,

Wiping the last evidence of existence 

Of this feeble flesh 

In the world of leaves and thorns.

Folks mourned

But they say: “he was warned.”

Many winters later

Some folks returned

Only to find debris and ruins

at the bottom of the marsh.

They were the last bit of

The academy’s print

On this wild wild land.

The marsh seemed tantalizing, as it tangoed

To the triumphant tune of the wind.