In my “barefoot” walking sandals I wander along endless wood sorrel carpets. Head tilted up, always up. I want to hum to match their steady breathing. There is no wind. The trees; they catch it all. They are not the ones who show us the wind; they are the ones who steal it, who absorb it into their other-world canopies and let it shiver down their trunks until, at last, it may drizzle over vine maples or red huckleberries. Each footstep is soft with leaves of rust and copper. Twigs scrape against my legs but I don’t look down to watch my step. Here is the place where we are small. Here is the place where ancient time crumbles and stands of its own will. I touch the trunk of one tree, particularly furled, particularly ochre. I tilt my head back and I whisper, thank you, because that’s all that there is to say.