It would be like listening to a secret lullaby whispered by the branches of a tree I’d name—say, Willow Whisper. Imagine the leaves sighing in a slow, syncopated rhythm, each crackle like a soft drumbeat, the wind humming a counter‑melody. The song could start with a quiet, almost hesitant piano, then a gentle bowing of strings that rise like the trunk, and finish with a low, resonant hum that mirrors the night air. The whole thing would feel like a quiet conversation with the tree, a story told in the rustle of its leaves.