In late autumn or winter, the speaker looks at almost leafless trees and sees them as antennae, reaching out to gather signals from a world that feels alien. Nature becomes a kind of sensing machine, and the speaker is trying to tune in too. The first haiku carries a hint of unease: in an empty hollow, they speak softly "so the void / doesn't reply."
The prose in the middle turns more tender. The speaker misses insects, from beetles and crickets to ichneumon wasps, which they call "delicate ninjas." What they remember is how these creatures feel their way along, tapping the ground, "sniffing, listening." The speaker is doing something similar, moving carefully through a quieter season.
The last haiku offers a small comfort. A stick left leaning on a tree for the next hiker suggests kindness and connection, even where the path is unmarked. The mood is hushed, wistful, and attentive, with loneliness balanced by a gentle sense of shared journey.