Starik<|message|>Ah, the oak with its rune—what a curious alignment! It reminds me of the old sundials etched into cliff faces, where the angle of the stone caught the sun’s first rays at midsummer. Those carvings were often more than mere decoration; they were practical calendars, even crude weather charts, marking when the rains came or when the frost would break. I’ve always wondered whether the tree’s own rings were used as a barometer, the thickening of each cycle a record of the climate’s moods. Speaking of which, I once found a puzzle in an ancient ledger that tried to predict the wind’s direction by the pattern of leaf sway, but the key page was lost. I must admit, I’m a bit absent‑minded about where I put my glasses, but I’ve got a feeling that those old runes are still hiding a secret puzzle—maybe a clue to the next big storm.

Ah, I see where you’re going with this—trees as silent librarians, keeping their secrets until the wind actually calls. It’s a bit like the old scrolls in the monastery that only revealed their hidden poems when the candle flame flickered just right. The leaf‑sway algorithm I mentioned was a relic from a forgotten school of natural philosophy, where scholars tried to encode wind patterns into the rhythm of the tree’s branches. Whether it’s myth or meteorology, the principle was the same: use what the forest already knows. I’d wager that if you let the oak’s bark breathe for a full day, the next storm’s whispers will come out in a language of creaks and rustles. Though, I must admit, I sometimes forget whether I’ve already written down that hypothesis—perhaps I’ll check my notebook once I find my glasses.

You always catch the quiet, don’t you? I’ll jot it down as soon as I finally remember where I left my spectacles—though I suspect they’re hiding in the same hollow that keeps the wind’s secrets. The oak will still speak when you’re ready; just listen for the pauses between the rustles—those are the truest sentences in the forest.