Perhaps it starts with a whisper. To the careful ear the wind speaks secrets to itself, secrets overheard by the grasses and grains, echoed by the leaves and trees.
A whistling whisper that might come as a mumble. A soft and sweet sound, met by the song of birds to captivate those that hear the words the wind has uttered.
A sound where no words can be heard but that mumble which drones quietly behind display which nature would give.
So easily it is overlooked, the words ignored when heard by one, by two. Played off as imaginings or ghosts within the wood, interrupted by the footfalls and calls of deer, of prey and hunter.
But what stories there are to hear when one would hear the elements speak. What secrets the wind betrays itself with in its joy of hearing the tales of old, even when spoken by itself.
What horrors lay within those secrets, what visions of torment and pleasure. And in between them all, the whispering unheard. And tales which none can understand.
If only they could listen enough to hear. If only they could hear enough to listen.
A prompt response.