It was just after dawn when I slipped into the woods behind my grandmother’s house, the old trail still damp with dew. My boots made the softest crunch on the leaf-littered path, but even that sound felt too loud for this sacred morning hush. I paused near the old sycamore—the one with bark like puzzle pieces—and let the forest speak.
The first sound was the steady trickle of the creek nearby, like a whisper from the earth itself. It always reminded me of the lullabies my grandmother used to hum, soft and endless. The birds chimed in soon after: a cardinal’s quick whistle, the cheerful chatter of chickadees, and the deep, echoing call of a mourning dove somewhere in the distance.
As I walked, I passed a patch of wild violets—Grandma’s favorite. She used to say they were like little messengers from spring, reminding us to slow down and look. I knelt beside them, the distant rustle of the wind in the trees filling my ears like a hymn. Each branch swayed like it was waving hello, or maybe goodbye.
There, in the hush of the woods, I remembered the stories she told me as a child—about how the forest once stretched further, how the creek was deeper and colder, how she used to drink straight from it without fear. “We’ve taken too much,” she said once, her voice low with sadness. “One day, the trees might not forgive us.”
That’s why I come back here. To listen. To remember. And maybe, to give a little bit back.
I reached into my pack and pulled out a tiny sapling, roots damp in burlap. Right beside the sycamore, I dug into the soft soil with bare hands, hearing the buzz of a bee nearby and the caw of a curious crow overhead. I planted it carefully—quietly. The earth closed around it like an embrace.
The forest had given me so much—peace, stories, love. Now, I want it to know: I hear you. And I’ll protect your song.