The trees are always speaking. The silent whisper heard only when the wind swirls through the rustling leaves. The chirp of the Blue Jays chatting incessantly, whose nests were perched upon the trees' branches. The calm splattering of the rain as it reaches the top canopy. Even the smallest of crickets, playing it's instrument under the damp, cool, roots that he calls home. I heard it every night, but I never listened. Come autumn and the leaves fell. Scorching reds, and Brillant oranges spread like wildfire from the long limbs of the tree. The squirels played and pranced all day in this field of fiames, dancing through the fall. I saw this every day, but I never watched. Winter followed as the ancient pines shed their needles. The bark drenched in a sticky sap which smelled of ginger, and syrup filled up the air with its sharp winter scent. As the needles frosted over the odor was replaced with the smell of fresh fallen snow and ice. Crisp and clean as a newly trimmed beard. I smelled it every day, but I never detected it. The spring rolled around again and brought its typical april showers. Once the pitter, patter of the rain splooshing down to the mud puddles below almost sent me to sleep there was a bang. The noise lurched me awake and I watched in horror as our forest was burnt to the ground. It was now that I smelt it. The charred wood intoxicating my airways so much it burned in my throat. I finally saw the bright flash of lightning that sent my forest a-blaze, and wathced as the tree's final strips of bark were burnt to a crisp. I finally listened, but there was only silence.