The woods are filled with a loud, eerie trill, an otherworldly song that originates from a hidden source. In addition to singing, this mysterious source is also listening and watching.
On the south side of Chicago, I walked across snow-covered sand on an icy lakeshore. The ice that had formed where water met beach lowly creaked as water moved underneath it. The winter day was cold, but, thankfully, there was a lack of wind whose harshness would have only been magnified by traveling across Lake Michigan.