The Sasquatch Chronicles

Through mossy aisles I tread with cautious breath,
Where sunlight fractures through the timbered veil.
A distant echo stirs the forest’s depth,
And leaves a shiver trailing like a trail.
The scent of pine and earth is thick, profound,
Yet something stranger lingers in the shade.
A rustle breaks the silence all around,
A secret whispered, not yet fully laid.
Could it be myth, or flesh that stalks unseen?
My heartbeat pounds with awe and mortal fear.
The legends of the wild, half-formed, between
The known and dream, now strangely draw me near.
Tonight I walk where stories intertwine,
Hoping the forest’s ghost may choose to shine.

A hulking shape moves slow through dawn’s first mist,
Its silhouette both human and immense.
A Squatchbuck pauses, sunlight on its wrist,
A moment frozen, fragile, tense, intense.
I dare not breathe, lest I disturb its world,
Yet wonder pins me deeper to the ground.
The forest hums, and leaves around me swirl,
While beating hearts in rhythm’s hush resound.
A Squatchling peeks behind a fallen tree,
Eyes wide and amber, glinting in the light.
The Sasquette watches, calm, immobile, free,
Protecting younglings hidden from my sight.
The family moves with grace through brambled halls,
A secret symphony among the pines and thralls.

In mud and loam, I trace their heavy prints,
Each step a map of hidden, gentle lives.
The forest seems to hold its breath, distinct,
As if the trees themselves conspire, connive.
Branches bow low to mark the paths they take,
And birdsong shifts to softer, wary calls.
I follow, mindful not to wake, to shake
The rhythm of their world beyond my walls.
A Squatchling tumbles, playful in its mirth,
While Sasquette’s watchful eyes survey the glen.
I feel the pulse of untamed, living earth,
A world untouched by walls of mortal men.
Each footprint etched in soil, a story told,
Of ancient wanderers in green and gold.

They cross the stream where silver waters gleam,
Squatchbuck wades first, his fur wet, dark, and wild.
The Sasquette follows, flowing like a dream,
Squatchlings cling and splash, each joyous child.
I linger on the bank, my thirst for proof
At odds with awe that freezes all my thought.
The current sings, and reflections are aloof,
Yet in that gleam, a living myth is caught.
The water bends around their massive form,
And carries whispers back to where I stand.
I feel my pulse, now part of nature’s norm,
Entwined with magic in this hidden land.
Their laughter echoes softly in the tide,
And human wonder swells that cannot hide.

As dusk descends, a hush drapes all the trees,
The forest darkens, breathing slow and deep.
The Sasquatch family moves with quiet ease,
While shadows stretch and stir in secret sleep.
I make a fire, its glow a timid spark,
Yet they approach, drawn by the amber light.
Squatchling peers with curiosity, not stark,
While Sasquette watches calmly through the night.
The Squatchbuck stands, a sentinel in fur,
Eyes meeting mine with caution, not with ire.
I feel a bond, unspoken but astir,
A bridge between the human and the higher.
In forest dark, I glimpse what few have known,
A family thriving where the wild has grown.

Tonight, they linger near the mossy glen,
Their breathing slow, as if in dream or thought.
I step not forward, fearing to offend,
Yet closer still, their lives in full are caught.
Squatchling tumbles near my outstretched hand,
Its warmth a miracle beneath the stars.
The Sasquette shifts, yet offers silent stand,
A gentle queen behind her furred avatars.
Squatchbuck grunts, a low and steady sound,
A language older than our written word.
I kneel, in awe, where mystic truths abound,
And hear the forest speak without being heard.
No hunter here, no prey, just shared heartbeat,
Two worlds aligned in fleeting, fragile meet.

At dawn, the family fades among the green,
Their forms dissolving into mist and light.
I stand alone, yet feel my soul has seen
The pulse of life untouched by human might.
The Squatchlings vanish first, a playful dash,
Then Sasquette glides, and Squatchbuck lumbers slow.
The forest swallows all, a silent splash,
Yet leaves a trail that only hearts can know.
I turn away, my steps both slow and sure,
But carry deep the memory of their grace.
The world outside seems smaller, less secure,
Compared to that wild, secret dwelling place.
And in my dreams, the footprints still remain,
A family’s dance beneath the endless rain.