A dream about shortcuts through the woods

I'm walking patrol along a trail I know like my own heartbeat, and every switchback someone has cut a straight line through the brush — a shortcut, always faster, always steeper, always muddy. The ground is braided with these thin ribs of worn dirt, and I can hear the trail itself sighing, not angry, just tired. I keep trying to reroute people back to the long way, but my voice comes out as the kind of rain that makes you stop and listen, and nobody seems to mind.