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WHAT THE MOON HEARS|Peter Lee The sound trees make in a forest devoid of human life is a sort of sniggering, like a clan of contentious hyenas feasting on the rumor of a lost child. The blinking moon is an owl's question of clouds pushing across its one good eye. "The wind will tell you who," whispers the brook, its white ribbon the moon's only clue to the little girl's passage through the wood. "Run your light along my length, and listen to the trees... The one the wind felled silenced her for good." |