The Old Places are Singing

If you listen closely, you can hear the old places singing.

The small creaks in the fallen log as small feet pitter across.

The wind, rustling the tops of pine trees, pushing cold autumn air into the nooks of the forest.

The rusting of squirrels, searching for whatever small pieces of food that the birds left behind.

The of leaves being pushed across the landscape, dancing as they hit the ground and then are pushed back up again.

The sounds of the forest sing to me as I admire their songs.

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