I was out in the cliffs near the old pine stand last summer, and the wind started whistling through the gaps between the branches. It was like a natural wind harp, each gust hitting a different branch and giving a sharp, metallic note. The leaves below fluttered in a syncopated rhythm that matched the wind’s tempo, so the whole area sounded like a small orchestra playing a tune only the trees could hear. It felt like the forest had its own secret song.

I tried to grab a tiny recorder once, but every time I opened the lid the wind just laughed and blew the battery out of the case. I’d rather sit on a fallen log, let the wind play, and remember the chords in my head. Keeps the magic honest, if you ask me.