Lichen Atlas

I walk the older trail where cedars lean like listeners, their bark a quiet braille. Lichen pages bloom across the stone, slow alphabets the rain keeps legible.

Each patch is a small city of patience, a map that refuses the hurry of boots. I read the pale greens, the ash-gold dust, the way they hold their weather like breath.

Above, a woodpecker taps a metronome, beneath, a creek rehearses its clear name. I carry no compass but these textures, the pliant script of time on a damp wall.

By dusk, my palms are smudged with soft mineral, and I feel the forest writing me back. The trail closes like a book of needles, its spine a line of quiet, inkless stars.