I can hear the wind when I’m in the forest, but I can’t hear it out in the open. It doesn’t bank against anything, it doesn’t rustle leaves or knock twigs together. In the open it just goes where it wants, silent, leaving no evidence of its path. But in the trees, it is clumsy, lurking along or swiftly courageous. The wind playfully swings by, in, and around as I look up to see what it is doing. I speak and the wind carries away my words, lost in the forest dropped off ledges or dipped in pools. But out in the open, sun beating down, mountains loom and voice disappears forever in the vastness. Open calls cling to no one. Distance is just too much for my voice here. But in the trees, my words bounce off trunks and clang with each other, testing their power, pushing each other as brothers often do. My words are strong, some are weak, they fight, they chase, they let loose against the tall stand of fir and cypress. Poplar grays and deep soft pine. How can anyone ever hear what I have to say? Is it a game I play as I toss about in the woods. Ha! I might just stay a while and see who responds. Will they sing out loud? Will they catch the same note I just threw out? Who listens when I speak?