View allAll Photos Tagged RUSTLE
macro work with manual lens Helios (M42) and used macro intermediate ring.
© Copyright. Eggii 2015. All rights reserved.
“There are gigantic trees that have grown tall into the winds and the clouds over the thousands of years of their lives, their tops are rustled and tossed by the mists of the atmosphere!
― C. JoyBell C.
If you have any questions about this photo or about photography in general, I will do my best to help, just post a comment or send me a Flickr mail and I will respond as quickly as possible.
Thanks for taking the time to take a look at my photos, and as always, your views, comments, faves, and support are greatly appreciated!! Have a great weekend my friends!! :)
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I know the year is dying,
Soon the summer will be dead.
I can trace it in the flying
Of the black crows overhead;
I can hear it in the rustle
Of the dead leaves as I pass,
And the south wind's plaintive sighing
Through the dry and withered grass.
Ah, 'tis then I love to wander,
Wander idly and alone,
Listening to the solemn music
Of sweet nature's undertone;
Wrapt in thoughts I cannot utter,
Dreams my tongue cannot express,
Dreams that match the autumn's sadness
In their longing tenderness.
-- Mortimer Crane Brown
[My annual tribute to Brown's masterful verse.]
"Ever felt an angel's breath in the gentle breeze? A teardrop in the falling rain? Hear a whisper amongst the rustle of leaves? Or been kissed by a lone snowflake? Nature is an angel's favorite hiding place." - Terry Guillemets
This is a view from one of the Latvia's most shallow lakes, Kanieris, bird paradise.
We went to its bird watching tower over the scenic wooden boardwalk, and on the way saw swans, ducks, and wagtails, white herons and geese, but none of them close enough to get a good photo.
The cities and towns were far away, so the only sounds was rustle of reeds in wind, light splashes of low waves, and calls, songs and chit-chat of birds. In the place where the reeds completely surrounded the path, it felt as if we would be surrounded by noisy students of a bird university during lunch break. Sounds came from all around, but birds were masterfully hiding from us. Only when we stopped for few minutes motionless, some bunch of pretty tiny yellow birds landed down on the path, but while I tried to get my camera and capture some group portrait, they realized they were not alone and left... So I can share only story about them and photo of reeds where they were hiding. :-)
1
Sometimes in the open you look up
where birds go by, or just nothing,
and wait. A dim feeling comes
you were like this once, there was air,
and quiet; it was by a lake, or
maybe a river you were alert
as an otter and were suddenly born
like the evening star into wide
still worlds like this one you have found
again, for a moment, in the open.
2
Something is being told in the woods: aisles of
shadow lead away; a branch waves;
a pencil of sunlight slowly travels its
path. A withheld presence almost
speaks, but then retreats, rustles
a patch of brush. You can feel
the centuries ripple generations
of wandering, discovering, being lost
and found, eating, dying, being born.
A walk through the forest strokes your fur,
the fur you no longer have. And your gaze
down a forest aisle is a strange, long
plunge, dark eyes looking for home.
For delicious minutes you can feel your whiskers
wider than your mind, away out over everything.
-- William Stafford
[Larger worth a moment]
Hidden Valley which is behind the rocks on the right was apparently a good place to hide your rustled cattle and horses in the early 1900's.
This was taken with my iPhone 11 as the thick snow which had fallen over the weekend was just beginning to melt a little. It was beautiful.
'In winter's loaded garment keenly blows
And turns her back on sudden falling snows,
To go where gravel pathways creep between
Arches of evergreen that scarce let through
A single feather of the driving storm;
And in the bitterest day that ever blew
The walk will find some places still and warm
Where dead leaves rustle sweet and give alarm
To little birds that flirt and start away.'
-- John Clare
Edited in Topaz Studio - I painted it because I like it better that way and when I have a moment, I enjoy doing it. I hope you like it too.
Many thanks as always for your kind comments and faves, all are really appreciated. 😃
"A few days ago I walked along the edge of the lake and was treated to the crunch and rustle of leaves with each step I made. The acoustics of this season are different and all sounds, no matter how hushed, are as crisp as autumn air."
Eric Sloane
Thank you to Lenabem Anna for Beautiful Texture www.flickr.com/photos/lenabem-anna/sets/72157624082271697/
www.youtube.com/watch?v=RgtEUr_n9vM
A hundred years or more, she's bent her crown
in storm, in sun, in moonsplashed midnight breeze.
surviving all the random vagaries of this harsh world.
A dense - twigged veil drifts down
from crown along her trunk - mourning slow wood
that rustles tattered, in a hint of wind
this January dusk, cloudy, purpling
the ground with sudden shadows.
A few days ago I walked along the edge of the lake and was treated to the crunch and rustle of leaves with each step I made. The acoustics of this season are different and all sounds, no matter how hushed, are as crisp as autumn air.
— Eric Sloane
-The Valley of Unrest- by Edgar Allan Poe (1845)
"Once it smiled a silent dell
Where the people did not dwell;
They had gone unto the wars,
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
Nightly, from their azure towers,
To keep watch above the flowers,
In the midst of which all day
The red sun-light lazily lay.
Now each visitor shall confess
The sad valley's restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless --
Nothing save the airs that brood
Over the magic solitude.
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
That palpitate like the chill seas
Around the misty Hebrides!
Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
Uneasily, from morn till even,
Over the violets there that lie
In myriad types of the human eye --
Over the lilies there that wave
And weep above a nameless grave!
They wave: -- from out their fragrant tops
Eternal dews come down in drops.
They weep: -- from off their delicate stems
Perennial tears descend in gems."
To My Blue Phoenix- My Resting Place. My Safe Place. My Calm after the Storm. ISFLY ♥♥.
Another unlikely Washington scene... this one from the Gingko Petrified Forest.
The other piece is from a shoot I did one day when I had a nasty migraine and could only find relief in the total absorption/distraction of trying to do ridiculous things with mirrors.
Yesterday, I found myself in a similar spot. I didn't have a migraine, but I spent several hours setting up and adjusting and rearranging and doing test shots... before concluding that the goal I was after was just too ambitious.
I like that part of the process of photography - the failure - as much as the relative successes. I may not achieve what I set out to achieve... but at least I get a better sense of what's beyond my grasp.
From yesterday's session I learned that anything requiring me to stand on a chair (or other unstable object) to see through the camera is not a good idea. I also learned to accept that some ideas just don't translate. And man... did I ever feel relieved when I gave up.
I think giving up is hugely underrated. Quitters of the world, unite.
"I'm going out the door
I will see the sun bright
and with your beautiful stern smile
I will tell you good morning
then I will leave I will be lost
and maybe you will only see me again in your dream.
Because I am a passing air
inside the city the alleys
and it makes the closed windows creak.
Because I am an evening aura
breathe cleanly alive
which makes the tilted leaves rustle.
I leave high for the mountain
and then I fall off the cliff
and I sway in the depths and the heights.
And I carry in silence
an unruly cry
and some unspeakable hope that has faded.
Because I am a passing air
Inside the city the alleys
and it makes the closed windows creak.
Because I am an evening aura
breathe cleanly alive
which makes the tilted leaves rustle."
Taken @ IMAGO Land
This Snowy Egret was taking a short break, this allowed us to get some up close and personal photos in Las Gallinas. It stood stoic as the breeze rustled its feathers. Among the most elegant of the herons, the slender Snowy Egret sets off immaculate white plumage with black legs and brilliant yellow feet. We liked the way the bokeh turned out on this one as the background was quite far away.
"As I'll be exiting my door
the globose sun I will behold
and I will cherish your last smile
Goodmorning then I'll bid to you
and I'll be gone all through-and-through
and maybe only in your dreams we'll meet next time
'Cause I'm just like the wind that blows
the one that through the city alleys flows
and makes the window shutters crackle
'Cause I'm just like the evening breeze
an all-alive and cleansing whiff
which forces leaning leaves on trees to rustle
I'm off to reach that mountain top
and then to free-fall after drop
and sway around those depths and heights
Carrying with me into the silence
a rebel yell that is my guidance
and an unspoken wish that you've concealed in your insides"
Taken @ London for Ara
light rustles
because there's a northern hemisphere after all ;-)
happy equinox :-)
forgive me for deleting group comment codes...
they're not my thing.. tho I do appreciate the visit!
The second day of the trip to the polygonal lakes, it rained all day. I didn't want to leave the tent at all. Cold, darkness and the pleasant rustle of raindrops on the tent. Sometimes the clouds showed the mountains, this is one of those moments. Nothing special, just a snapshot of the gloomy north as a keepsake
"I know the year is dying,
Soon the summer will be dead.
I can trace it in the flying
Of the black crows overhead;
I can hear it in the rustle
Of the dead leaves as I pass,
And the south wind's plaintive sighing
Through the dry and withered grass.
Ah, 'tis then I love to wander,
Wander idly and alone,
Listening to the solemn music
Of sweet nature's undertone;
Wrapt in thoughts I cannot utter,
Dreams my tongue cannot express,
Dreams that match the autumn's sadness
In their longing tenderness."
- Mortimer Crane Brown, Autumn Dreams
Lovely texture thanks to Jai Johnson.
As always, thank you for your visit, all of your kind comments, invitations and favorites. This image may not be copied or distributed without my written consent. © All rights reserved.
i love to click mushrooms which are as rare as a snow squall in a desert here, so dana sent some beautifully composed ones for the stream
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"Ever felt an angel's breath in the gentle breeze? A teardrop in the falling rain? Hear a whisper amongst the rustle of leaves? Or been kissed by a lone snowflake? Nature is an angel's favorite hiding place."
Quote - Carrie Latet
Model: Origami Angel
Instructions how to make this angel in the book 'Origami Jewelry" by Ayako Brodek. It is very easy to fold ;-))
Made from two pieces of shiny red textured paper, one for the body and one for the wings.
~ Pause ~ Poem by me ~ 02.07.16 - 02.14.16
As chapters sense when to change
And time when to pause and start a-gain,
As unending days feel so very strange,
In all your happiness and pain,
Trust that you'll be moved (in shine and in rain).
As some art is gorgeously pretty yet so vain,
Yet in some: you smell biting ice, or warm rain;
Feel leaves caress with their rustle;
See each expression, sinew and muscle;
Hear water lap against a shore in a stream.
And you embrace it in, as you would a dream.
As a monument of music can leave you cold,
Yet some, is so tortuously written, so bravely bold,
Compelling in its rhythm or grit to the soul.
And it fills to the brim that immensely deep hole.
In all your happiness and pain,
Know there is awe in shine or in rain.
+++++++++++
Snapshots Layered_113_148_154_104 Streaming In Light vIII
(Brush-Textured as Ink and Watercolor)
I virtually landscaped Zane Island and am taking pictures of it with different lighting and angles.
++++++++++
the hurrying rustle of crisp leaves blown across the street by a gusty wind, and the gabble of a flock of migrating geese.
~ Hal Boreland
The dry oak leaves remained on the tree all winter and rustled in the wind as I walked past them. I thought I heard them whisper your name and that is when the sky turned a cobalt blue color.
___________________***_________________
and sometimes i'm here : www.artlimited.net/33907
____________________***_________________
© Copyright. Agata 2018. All rights reserved.
Have you ever visited Sandbanks Provincial Park, nestled on the west coast of Prince Edward County? To be completely honest, and I don't want to exaggerate, but every person I have ever talked to in my life about provincial parks love this place.
There is our opportunity for an exceptional exploration and full enjoyment of the beauty of this park at this time of a year, especially, when all the summer crowds were gone. This image is taken on the stunning Woodlands Trail that leads across old farm pastures to hardwood lots. A walk over the leaf carpeted trail is breathtaking, and you can enjoy hearing the rustle of the leaves while walking. Awesome!
The fall colors amaze everyone, so enjoy them until you can, because the remanence of Hurricane Patricia will bring all the foliage down today!
© all rights reserved by Mala Gosia. Please do not use this image on websites, blogs or any other media without my explicit written permission.
This is one of the largest waterfalls in the Eistobel natural reserve in the allgäu alps. Here, the water of the river Oberer Argen is falling, in several cascades, overall and over a distance of about 3 kilometres, 70 meters down. The play is framed by up to 130 meters high walls of rock. Here You find a beautiful place for hiking ore just for relaxing. If You really want to enjoy the nature and the quietness (except the rustle of the water) I recommand to be here early, because the valley is one of the most popular excursion destinations in the whole area.
Dies ist einer der größten Wasserfälle im Naturschutzgebiet Eistobel im Allgäu. Hier fällt das Wasser des Oberen Argen auf einer Strecke von etwa 3 km in mehreren Kaskaden insgesamt 70 m in die Tiefe. Eingerahmt wird das ganze von bis zu 130 m hohen Felswänden. Hier findet man einen wunderschöner Ort zum Wandern oder auch nur zum Entspannen. Wenn man die Natur und die Ruhe (abgesehen vom Rauschen des Wassers) wirklich genießen will, empfehle ich allerdings sehr früh hier zu sein, denn das Tal gehört zu den beliebtesten Ausfluszielen der Umgebung.
Листья падают, кружатся,
Надо в листьях поваляться,
Нашуршаться от души,
До чего же хороши....Leaves are falling, spinning,
It is necessary to lie in the leaves,
To rustle from the heart,
How good they are!...
...remember those summer rains..it got a little dark and you could smell the air change...
www.youtube.com/watch?v=iv8GW1GaoIc
[ Organica ] Weeping Willow 3 - Scripted Animesh
marketplace.secondlife.com/p/Organica-Weeping-Willow-3/16...
The Weeping Willows are the first in a line of trees from Organica that will both offer Animesh support as well as built-in compatibility with the Organica Seasonal Control Module, which will allow for mass foliage change of Organica: Winds of Change-compatible products both region-wide as well as parcel-specific.
The Willows are set to animate and rustle in relation to Second Life region wind. They change texture (Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter, Dead) on command from the included SCM, but you can also set foliage by individual tree as well if you wish.
Other Stuff
Scarlet Creative Harry Pottering Shed
dust bunny . gardenia shed
PLAAKA Sunflower Round
[we're CLOSED] grass field dry
Schadenfreude Fluttery Firefly Flying
Bastian with some of his toys...
First posted 03.04.2016. Reposted 29.09.2023 for the "Happy Caturday" theme "Favourite toy".
Bastian (mixed breed), 31.03.2016.
Olympus OMD EM5 Digital CameraCamera
(ENGLISH FOLLOW)
À l’Ouest du Temps - La forêt de Fangorn *
« Les aventures fantastiques ont rarement une fin. Il y a toujours quelqu’un pour en comprendre les fondements et continuer le récit » (Un sage)
__________
Je suis retourné à l’Ouest du Temps, là où tout a commencé, à l’orée de la forêt de Fangorn.
Des arbres sombres portant de magnifiques fleurs blanches étendaient leurs longues branches, comme pour marquer, d’un geste de bienvenue, le passage vers les profondeurs de la forêt. Ils auraient pu être de lointains ancêtres de nos pommiers, mais, selon l’histoire locale, ils appartenaient à la civilisation des Ents, la plus vieille de la Terre du Milieu. Ces arbres étaient dotés, croyait-on, d’une forme de « conscience » et d’une mémoire collective remontant aux origines. On racontait qu’ils étaient capables de communiquer entre-eux et avec d’autres espèces et même d’agir ensemble dans l’intérêt commun…
Soudainement, je fus submergé par une marée d’impressions insistantes: de la curiosité, une extrême vigilance, l’écho lointain de zones d’ombres, de blessures béantes au coeur des arbres. Puis, un bruissement soutenu des feuilles me figea sur place avec appréhension. Et, d’une manière que je ne saurais expliquer, j’en compris le sens: « Prend garde en traversant la forêt. Fait preuve de respect envers nous. Et nous t’aideront à trouver le courage d’affronter les mystères et les dangers auxquels tu devras faire face dans le Monde.» (Patrice le Hobbit)
____________
À l’Est du Temps, le rationalisme moderne a relégué, les récits, les contes, les légendes anciennes y compris les écrits de Tolkien et de bien d’autres grands auteurs, aux domaines de l’imaginaire, de la spiritualité, de la magie pure, du folklore et du divertissement. Comme si, rien de ces écrits n’avait une quelconque résonance avec des savoirs utiles tirés de l’expérience humaine…
Or, des découvertes récentes en neurobiologie, en biologie végétale et en écologie appliquée aux arbres et aux forêts tendent à donner un fondement scientifique à plusieurs mythes anciens à leur sujet: les arbres sont des entités sociales et conscientes, capables d’apprendre, d’interagir et d’évoluer. **
Ce que les Anciens savaient, mais qu’ils ne pouvaient pas exprimer par des mots, plutôt avec des images métaphoriques et poétiques, comme Tolkien - deviennent maintenant un champ de recherche scientifique moderne, périphérique certes, mais courageux et prometteur.
Patrice photographiste, Chroniques du Monde de Poësia
*Forêt mythique de la Terre du Milieu dans le récit du Seigneurs des Anneaux (J.R. R. Tolkien)
** Voir notamment : Peter Wohlleben, (La vie secrète des arbres); Suzanne Simard, (Finding the Mother Tree - Discovering the Wisdom of Forest)
______________________________
West of Time: Fangorn Forest *
“Fantasy adventures rarely have an end. There is always someone to understand their foundations and continue the story” (A wise man)
__________
I have returned to the West of Time, where it all began, at the edge of Fangorn Forest.
Dark trees bearing magnificent white flowers stretched out their long branches, as if to mark, with a welcoming gesture, the passage to the depths of the forest. They might have been distant ancestors of our apple trees, but according to local history they belonged to the Ent civilization, the oldest in Middle-earth. These trees were believed to be endowed with a form of “consciousness” and a collective memory going back to the origins. They were said to be able to communicate with each other and with other species and even to act together in the common interest...
Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by a tide of persistent impressions: curiosity, extreme vigilance, the distant echo of shadowy areas, gaping wounds in the heart of the trees. Then, a steady rustle of leaves froze me in place with apprehension. And, in a way that I cannot explain, I understood the meaning: “Be careful while crossing the forest. Show us respect. And we will help you find the courage to face the mysteries and dangers you will face in the World. (Patrice the Hobbit)
____________
In the East of Time, modern Rationalism has relegated stories, tales, ancient legends including the writings of Tolkien and many other great authors, to the domains of the imagination, spirituality, pure magic, folklore and entertainment. As is, none of these writings had any resonance with useful knowledge drawn from human experience...
However, recent discoveries in neurobiology, plant biology and ecology applied to trees and forests tend to give a scientific basis to several old myths about them: trees are social and conscious entities, capable of learning, interacting and advancing. **
What the elders knew, but could not express in words, rather in metaphorical and poetic imagery, like Tolkien - now becomes a field of modern scientific research, peripheral indeed, but courageous and promising.
Patrice photographer, Chronicles of the Lands of Poësia
* Mythical forest of Middle-earth in the story of Lord of the Rings (J.R. R. Tolkien)
** See in particular: Peter Wohlleben, (The Hidden Life of Trees, The Secret Wisdom of Nature); Suzanne Simard, (Finding the Mother Tree - Discovering the Wisdom of Forest)
All that glitters is indeed gold
When light penetrates the forest's gloom,
The warmth casts out the piercing cold,
Fragrant greens drive out odors of mold,
And darkness retreats into shadow's womb.
The leaves are dazzling with splendor.
The flies are buzzing through the silence.
A breeze sways branches, dry and slender,
And rustles through ferns, soft and tender,
As they bow down, nodding their compliance.
Such is the language of the trees
And in nature's tongue I'm being told
With glittery voice, she speaks with ease,
Breathing her message as a faint breeze:
"This moment of joy is worth more than gold."
(c) 2020, Claudia G. Kukulka
My heartfelt gratitude for your visit, fave and (if you find the time) comment.
No moon tonight. Wind rustles the trees. A bird shrieks.
Another. I probed my way along the presumed path,
afraid to step on some small, fuzzy life form. You never
know. Small steps go a long way. My feet are my eyes.
I softly call my horse. A soft whinnying.
KHOP - Moon.
A beaten path winds its way through the dense forest, beckoning the adventurous to explore the unknown. As it disappears into the horizon, the promise of new discoveries and breathtaking scenery entices all who dare to follow it. With each step, the crunch of leaves and the rustle of branches create a symphony of nature, inviting us to immerse ourselves in the beauty of the wilderness. Come and explore, for the wonders of the forest await you.
Taken @ Strays And Misfits
How silent is this place
The brilliant sunshine filters through the trees
The leaves are rustled by a gentle breeze
A wild and open space
By shrubs pink-tipped, mauve blossomed o’ergrown
A hush enfolds me, deep as I have known
Unbroken save by distant insects’ drone
A jungle clearing, a track, through which we bear our load to Him
It is our Paradise Road
…
(English follow)
La sagesse des herbes sauvages
Ici, il y a le bruit des démocraties modernes, dont le vernis craque.
Là-bas, celui des Empires anciens et autoritaires qui cherchent à renaître de leurs cendres.
Klaxons ou canons
Même illusion…
Nous vivons dans un monde qui cherche un nouveau récit de l’avenir.
Souvent, en ces temps désespérants et incertains,
Je m’en vais aux champs
Cueillir des baies rouges ou bleues,
Photographier les brins d’avoine sauvage
Entendre leur bruissement dans le vent,
Et refaire alliance avec l’essence de la vie, celle de nos origines…
Assis, par terre, calmement, comme l’un des milliards de brins d’herbes sauvages qui m’entourent.
Et dont le nombre, la mémoire et la longévité surpassent ceux de tous les Empires humains.
En revenant des champs, je me dis souvent qu’un autre monde n’est pas seulement possible, mais qu’il est en route, silenceux et déterminé.
Et qu’il relèguera aux oubliettes de l’histoire,
Le bruit des klaxons et des canons.
Patrice Photographiste : Chroniques du Monde de Poësia
_________________________
The wisdom of Wild grasses
Here, there is the noise of modern democracies, whose veneer cracks.
Over there, that of the old and authoritarian Empires which seek to be reborn from their ashes.
Horns or cannons
Same delusion...
We live in a world that seeks a new narrative of the future.
Often, in these desperate and uncertain times,
I'm going to the fields
Pick red or blue berries,
Photograph the strands of wild oats,
Hear their rustle in the wind,
And re-establish an alliance with the essence of life, that of our origins…
Sitting, on the ground, calmly, like one of the billions of blades of wild grass that surround me.
And whose number, memory and longevity surpass those of all human Empires.
Coming back from the fields, I often tell myself that another world is not only possible, but that it is on the way, silent and determined.
And that it will exile to the dungeon of history,
The sound of horns and cannons.
Patrice Photographer: Chronicles of the Lands of Poësia
A writing on Trees by Hermann Hesse follows.
Herman Hesse was a contemporary of Adolph Hitler (more or less - a few years older). They had some shared experiences in the tumult of WWI (more or less - Hitler was a soldier, Hesse was in the medical corps). They came out of WWI with polar opposing views - Hitler raging with the Nationalist ferver that started WWI and led us into WWII, Hesse calling for tolerance and understanding. I guess we know whose voice was louder...
(Hats off to anyone who makes it to the end...)
"Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.
A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.
A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.
When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.
A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one s suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.
So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness."