I used to go hiking at a place with a small, steady flow of water year-round, a 4-inch wide creek. It was small but had a nice flow, coming down a steep section of the mountain, and the trail crossed it. An oak grove followed the trickle down the mountainside. In the evening, under the oaks, it felt eerie, as if the trees were whispering, giving off a vibe of something unwholesome. I imagined it as a place of animal sacrifice by some forgotten cult or a murder site from long ago. I would quickly pass through that area on my way back down the trail after my hikes. But during the day, it was a nice place to cool off. Funny how the time of day made such a difference in how the place felt.
The poetic version:
I hiked a trail where water flowed,
A quiet creek, its path well-known,
A gentle stream on mountain steep,
Where oak trees whispered in their sleep.
By day, the air was cool and clear,
A place to rest and linger near,
But as the evening shadows fell,
The woods took on a darker spell.
The oaks would whisper, low and strange,
As if the air itself had changed,
A haunted place, where once, I feel,
Old rites were done, or blood was spilled.
I’d hurry past that whispered dread,
As night descended overhead,
Yet in the daylight, all seemed well—
It’s funny how time shifts the spell.