in the woods i can hear the trickle of your fingers on the guitar string, murmuring little things that you might have never said had it not been for the wind. and it rises but you don't speak any louder and all of the things you might have never said are carried up and outwards, over hills and into the damp spaces under things. the little children see them and give chase, following the upward lift and light of all the things you might have never said. maybe they want to never say them too, or maybe they just want to know, as i do, the things that you might have never said, had it not been for the wind.