An event is taking place. It is coming our way. The air mass flows, accumulating momentum as it nears. This is the voice of the wind through the mountain, carrying a crescendo of minuscule, discernible sounds. It is here.
Breeze becomes gust, flattening ripples into soft dark patches on the water.
Now begin the fluttering rounded leaves of alder, flapping like flagpoles on a sailor's day at sea. The event has visited and moved on, left to right, a stereophonic train of sound roaring down shiny tracks. How quickly it has passed, diminished again to a breeze. Its soundtrack spools backward as the event rushes north, leaving us on the platform to reflect in silence. People have projected their own thoughts and feelings upon animate and inanimate objects since the beginning of time, as if trees and rocks care what we happen to be feeling at the time.