When I walk through the still forest, I hear silence. But within the silence plays the symphony of life.

The light is a music only trees can hear, and transform, ray by ray and note by note, into their own song of vitality.

They send their song down into the ground, all the way from their dancing leaves and trough their thickening wood and down, down, down through roots that sing out to the secrets of the water, and bring their liquid melody, too, into the tree.

Between the trees, every patch of grass or moss sings its own hymn of aliveness, its own refrain. And the acorns sing their hopes of sprouting between the fallen leaves, praying for cover, praying for the birds to stay away.

I walk, and I don’t have the ears to hear these sounds, this glory; I am an invalid, my mind is deaf.

But the song is there, though to me, the woods are silent. And when I walk its paths, I understand how God revealed Himself to Moses through the silence, and how Moses could feel Him in the absence of His voice.