you left the gate open
and studied the tracks in the mud
trying to work out
which animal belonged to the forest
and which one belonged to you
when weather turns hard over the valley
the trees don’t stand there weighing whether the wind is being fair
they don’t call the lightning cruel
they don’t apologize
for the branches it takes from them
you spent so long counting scratches on the door
weighing who took more
and who bled first
sure that if you kept a good enough record
the record itself would somehow keep you safe
but the fight was only ever
the wind meeting the house
two things doing exactly what they were built to do
there is no need to tame what grew in the dark
or apologize for needing shelter from it
when you stop standing at the edge
demanding to know who started it
you notice the air has already cleared without you
the woods were never yours to solve
you were only ever meant to walk through them
leave the tracks where they land
and keep going
some doors get rebuilt stronger than the ones the wind first found
not out of anger at what tore through
just because a house, like anything alive, keeps learning what shelter actually requires
—lyra moon (the house didn’t blame the wind, it just kept building better doors)
september 15, 2026