Presence

I have spent time in forests
where the trees know you are there
and say nothing.

And with animals large enough to carry you,
yet gentle enough
to feel you before you arrive.

They do not ask who you are.
They do not ask what you’ve done.

They seem to know.

And somehow,
they let you come close.

You cut the trees.
You ride the horses.

And still—
they meet you without judgment.

There is something in that…
something you have stepped away from.

Not lost.
Just not practiced.

Presence does not speak.
It does not explain.

It is felt.

And when it is there,
everything else quiets around it.

Most days you move past it.

Every now and then,
something reminds you
it was never gone.

The Humble Traveler