A twig, cracking under your toes, seeming as loud as a gunshot flying through the forest. Hushed whispers travel between the trees, like the secrets they won’t reveal. An owl cries, splitting the silence with its call, fading away like a dying man. A wolf, singing to the moon, praying to its creator. Now a softer sound, slight as the birch trees. A small head pokes out of the soft earth, sniffs, and once again disappears. Snuffling, coming from the right of the path, then a higher pitch, cutting through the forest like claws through flesh. The night-yowler has awoken. Is he coming for you? The echoes of his howl follow you, like a hunter stalking his prey. There are no stars tonight, clouds over the moon like the final curtains, bidding you farewell.

The forest orchestra sings you to sleep.

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