Every time I walk out into the woods and hear the rustle of a branch or crackle of the autumn leaves beneath my feet, I could almost swear the woods are singing for me. It’s a cacophony of all the sounds in the wild, and the beat is complex and recalls elements of jazz.
I keep going back. The beauty is almost unbearable. The sky is always a pearly blue-gray, leaves waving happily on the ends of stout branches. As I walk down the familiar, well-trodden path I can feel the wind caressing me, cool and persistent. I could walk the path with my eyes closed and not trip on a tree branch or loose stone, for I know that the wind would catch me.
No one can know. Even if someone believed me, they would never understand how it feels when the grass tickles your bare feet or when the river laps at your heels. The thing that matters isn’t the feeling of magic, but the quietude. The whole place feels like the river itself, minding its own business and winding a path through the world.