Reeds.

They look like a corridor. They are a crowd. Hummocks lie about being islands. Your foot finds water that has been waiting. Sky lowers.

You can keep on until dark makes a second marsh of the air, feast sliding away, badge a story you tell later with a laugh that hurts.

You can notice birds lifting toward the ridge, drier ground, the oak still existing, and be a person who turns.

Reeds click. That is not a waymark. A true path gathers ruts and dung and dropped strap-ends. This gathers water. Your feet send news up your bones. Turning is a skill. Pushing is a story reeds love.

Hop would see a tunnel. You are old enough to see a crowd of stems. The difference is pilgrimage.