the sermon of the inanimate, the air in motion around the Dunsmore trees. It surges over the other sounds but I can’t say what it is, it’s of the world older and wider than words. My friends call back to me, to the upgazing laggard. And I keep falling behind as we tramp on. There’s some secret in that wind, both hidden and there to whisper to anyone who hangs back in the wood.
