Do not believe that the trees are sightless. The eldest in the forest will often rise beyond its trunk and branches, leaving the tight cling of its roots behind, to grow again as something free. The woods have eyes, and they watch the world of beast and man race by from the safety of their former canopy.

What is an hour to a tree? A blink of its eerie eye. Compared to the slow growth of an oak or yew, the steps of men must seem such a hurried existence.

What do trees think about, I wonder? Can these old trees talk? I’d want to ask about the wind, in their leaves. Does it feel nice, like when wind blows through hair?