My bare feet

Travel the frigid, dewy grass,

Damp as I walk through the forest.

It is serene, but I am uneasy.

It gets darker; the sun is disappearing.

Boreas begins to make itself present,

Bringing chills down the length of my spine.

It is not winter, yet the gusts are bitter against my skin.

As I scamper through the shadows,

I feel for objects to make my way out.

My palms burn from grabbing at the bark around me.

The grass once beneath my feet turns to jagged rock.

I hesitate, but still, I continue.

The wind is howling.

My hair is whipping against my face.

I am scared, but I do not know why.

Squinting, I see the sky ahead.

The edge is definite, terrifying, and welcoming altogether.

Determined, I run forward, jump, and await the impact.