Keening is not the word, exactly. Nor is singing fully apt. Nor does moaning capture it with the exactitude one might hope. Language, frankly, is not up to the task.

Yet we must make do with the tools on the table.

When the wind lifts and the great forest begins to sway, another sound rises. A chorus of them, nesting in a particularly ravaged tree. A stark choir for a dissonant, minor chord.

The fine hairs that cover the body lift like antennae. We hear it through our skin.


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