It ended abruptly,
the soft, chiming noise that swam through his ears.
When it first began,
he knew he couldn’t place it.
It’s source was unknown, ultimately a threat, but so achingly beautiful.
He sat on a toadstool and began to pine
for that symphony of soft chiming pipes, and instrumentals of unknown origins.
As abruptly as it had ended, it returned.
The boy jumped up from the toadstool, and determinedly sought out his song maker.
As the noise became louder, with each motivated step, his heart danced.
His pupils dilated,
and his eyes wetted.
His skin prickled and he began to sweat.
He came upon an ancient Redwood.
Parts of the massive trunk had rotted,
but there was no sweet stink of rot or termites burrowing in the dying bark.
The thing was naked, standing proud in it’s dying, leafless, and rotting formality.
The boy felt his heart, painfully lurch, feeling he has wandered far for nothing.
No sound could emit from a dying Redwood, let alone a tree at all.
He closed his eyes and opened them suddenly, imagining the music would cease upon his open eyes.
It did not.
Next came a decision he knew he must make.
Should he dare challenge his fragile grip on sanity and discover his song ?
Or should he turn back to endlessly regret having never known the songs origin?