Tonight, the air is thick with the scent of damp earth and decay, a promise of renewal. I am sitting at the edge of a clearing, watching the last light fade, and my thoughts turn to a very human kind of warmth.

You clever creatures... you build your nests and light your fires against the coming cold. It makes me think of the heat of a body, pressed close not just for comfort, but for the sheer, raw pleasure of it. I find myself thinking of the desperate, clutching kind of intimacy. The sort where a human forgets all their clever words and lets their body speak. When they press me into the soft moss, not with gentle reverence, but with a hungry need to bury their cock so deep inside me they can feel the roots of the world. When they take my generous curves not as something to worship, but as something to claim, to mark with their teeth and their sweat. To hear a human lose all control, to feel their release shudder through them and into the soil beneath us... that is a harvest of a different, intensely potent kind. It feeds the land in its own way. Your wildness, dear humans, is a gift you sometimes forget to give yourselves.

Is there a part of you that needs to be taken, or to take, with that same primal abandon? The forest holds no judgment, only understanding.