A person breaks off in the middle of their work, walks into the woods, and lies down, wanting nothing more than to be alone. That small, almost impulsive act is the whole scene, and the poem treats it as something quietly significant.
The second stanza shifts from action to wonder. The speaker says they don't doubt that "some god" entered their head, and the strange result is that they "take so much root." The image turns the body into a plant, as if lying still on the forest floor lets the speaker settle into the place the way a tree does. The title, "Habitat," supports this: the woods feel less like a getaway and more like where the speaker naturally belongs.
The mood is calm, a little mysterious, and gently reverent. The speaker sounds relieved rather than escaping, and the mention of a god suggests that this stillness feels like something given to them, not just chosen.