Bigfoot lives just outside of town,
where the gravel fades and the sun dips down,
past the river’s bend where the cold runs clear,
in the hush of the woods where the trails disappear.

He knows those trails like no one can,
every turn, every root, every ridge of land,
from Deer Mountain’s climb to the lake at Bear,
to the high, thin wind in the alpine air.

He’s walked where the elk leave prints in the frost,
where the snow falls deep and the path gets lost,
where Longs Peak glows in the morning light
and the stars burn sharp in the cold at night.

He belongs out here, no buts or ifs.
But belonging, he thinks, would be that much better
if only he had someone to share it with.

He’s not afraid of the dark or cold,
not the quiet hush or the stories told.
He doesn’t mind how the long nights go.
He’s always known what the woods can show.

But something in him has started to grow,
a feeling he’s only begun to know.
Not hunger. Not fear. Not the need to roam.
Just a quiet wish for a friend of his own.

He’s not alone in the woods he keeps.
A black bear moves where the hillside sleeps.
They cross the same trails; they share the land.
They understand, and they don’t demand.

Through Moraine Park and the tall pines’ sway,
through Hidden Valley’s drifting gray,
they pass like shadows, calm and slow.
But a bear’s not quite the same, you know.

So Bigfoot listens.
He waits.
He hears…
something different drifting near…

not wind,
not branch,
not wing or hoof,
but laughter…
rising, bright, and proof
that somewhere close, just out of sight,
there are voices. Warm in the falling night.

He doesn’t step in. He stays out there.
But sometimes he moves just a little more near.
He hears the way that people talk,
the sound of footsteps on a walk,
the way one voice will call another —
a friend, a sister, maybe a brother.

He wonders what it might be like
to walk beside, not just out of sight,
to share a trail, to match a stride,
to have someone walking right by his side.

And maybe one day, not loud, not fast,
he’ll take one step just past the last
line of shadow, line of tree,
into a place where he might be…

… seen.

But here’s the thing he hopes is true:
he’s not looking to scare you.
He’s not chasing, he’s not wild,
he’s just a little mountain-styled:
quiet, gentle, slow to roam,
just out there hoping he’s not alone.

So if you’re out where the rivers run,
or walking trails in the morning sun,
and you feel that quiet settle through,
that calm, that stillness pulling you…

You don’t need to run.
You don’t need to hide.
He’s not that kind.
He won’t come inside.

He’s just out there, where the tall trees grew,
looking for a friend.
Maybe someone like… you.