“Lois, get your root off of mine, budge over,” Gregor, the Pine, grumbled.

“Oh, quit your griping, you old geezer,” Laney, the Sassafras, piped in, “leaf some light for the rest of us tomorrow, will ya?”

Her mother, the Laurel, chided her, “Twigling, what have I told you about disrespecting your alders?”

“That’s ‘Old Growth’ to you, missy,” Lois, the Banyan, cut in.

Mabel, the Maple, extended a branch, shushing them. “I’ve had enough of you lot! Give the whinging a rest, I beg you. I’m trying to hear the cricket concert.”

The trees and their rustling leaves fell quiet for a moment, heeding her advice. While they were entertaining to listen to, I was starting to see what Mabel meant about the crickets. They did make a melodic sort of hum with their wings. I could only dream of meeting the cricket composers and conductors of their symphonies.

So there I lay, as still as a log, lest I disturb my moment. I, a fly on the wall in the bustling life of a forest.