This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at Wells chapter.
A low grumble rolls beneath your dragging soles. The smell of damped stale leaves invades your nose. Crunching. Crunching. Scratching. Twigs and branches reach out to you, warning you of their presence. They scream with every step you make.
Soft cushions of decades-old moss appear through the branch-covered ground, gentler on your toes. A chill breaks through your coat as the sharp weeds tear through your legs. Crunching. Crunching. Squishing. Dead grass grabs at your shoes—it grounds you for only a moment.
The hawks screech and squawk above you as they search for food. Are you their meal? Maybe a snack?
A squirrel chuckles, “You’re next.”