[5: forest]

Running through the forest, trail of packed loam, smells of pine and moss,
decay, but decay in its place, not the rancid stink of decay in other
places, but the smell of earth being reborn from tree limbs and musrooms in
the litter.

The crunchy balls formed by mushrooms crack underfoot like eggshells with
nothing inside but a smoke of spores, ready to spread. The sound is
startling, nothing else in the forest has that kind of crispness. 

Fog rolls over the path, and a tree root is obscured until almost too late.
Running feet half catch, leather shoe tearing bark from the upturned root. A
shower of earth splatters behind, the earthy smell momentarily stronger.

A moment of sun, and a whiff of late berries left on the vines, too hard and
dry now for humans to eat, but a gentle buzz says that there are insects
that aren't so picky. 

Strands of poison oak trail near the path, visible now in red splendor, the
only time of year it's easy to avoid, the red vines and leaves making a
stark contrast to the pine and spruce behind it, and the deep brown of the
earth and leaves underneath. Soon it will die back to tiny sticks and white
berries, hidden among the leaves and ready to leave an oily surprise on
someone's winter boots.