Silence blankets the woods on my northeasterly face. The wind has left. The trees sleep. The animals cease to exist. In the dead of night, the crescent moon gleams off the clouds — with this celestial light, a tune comes. At first, it is nothing but a note. But it grows… crescendos to a melody as the crescent moon fills, becoming whole.

What is this strange song? It is foreign to these slopes. Perhaps I will break my silence, see what harmony I might utter… see what visitor sings in the skies above.