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Centuries before, the peoples of this valley that still bears their name had bent these trees not to their will, but to show the way along a path they should follow.  They were long gone now, the sounds of their voices absorbed into the trees that had guided them, and the mountains that still echoed their names throughout the ages.  

He lent an ear and listened intently to the wind and the trees singing their own songs.  

He closed his eyes, transporting himself to a time 400 years ago when those same songs could be heard at this very spot.

The creek babbled its babbling nonsense that humans could not fathom as the sounds of life-giving fluidity caressed the hard surfaces that channeled its constant movement towards an inevitable destination below, over and then through all of the living things in the world.

A bird voiced her message many humans thought of as a song, but which more likely was a call of alarm to her usual companions there in the wood to beware of yet another intrusion by one of THEM: The two-legged creatures they instinctively knew posed a threat to their very existence.   

She soon fell silent, leaving the man to focus on the sounds that to the humans would be regarded as sounds of nothingness echoing through a vacuous place.  There at his desk, he replied thusly:

QUIET SONG


Be Still

Listen


Only to your breath


then the breath

of the wind

rustling leaves

of trees


Hear the whistle

sharp and melodic

calling out to you

calling your name


beckoning you

to come closer


to be still

to listen


to hear things

that have been

silent

to you


Be still

Listen


Then hear