Lamping Hours

The old ones in the village will tell you the wood is not empty after dark. They will also tell you not to go in. They will not tell you why the hedgerows are hung with offerings no one admits to leaving. Past the last field boundary, the wood keeps its own hours. Something hums beneath the oaks, low and patient. Headphones on, the dial turned to where nothing should be, you wait. Between the hiss and the hush, something answers in a language of intervals. The undergrowth begins to move. Eyes catch the light for a moment, green and then gone. Everything out here is following something, and everything is followed. Some have learned to move only when the static swells. The signal does not seem to mind. It only pulses, patient, from somewhere under the roots, keeping time for the chase. Transmissions logged between dusk and the grey before dawn. Listen closely. The wood is listening back.