By the Nostalgic Wolf
The day sighs. The light softens. And the forest, my old friend, begins to fall into its hush.
This is the hour when most turn away—when the owls blink open their golden eyes and the breeze grows bold enough to speak. But for those who linger, who listen just a little longer, there’s something sacred to be heard.
I’ve walked through many forests in my time. Each one speaks its own quiet language. Pine groves hum in green whispers. Deciduous woods rustle like old parchment. The rainforest breathes in pulses, while snow-draped valleys sleep like ancient giants.
But no matter where I go, sleep comes to the wild like a ceremony. Not sudden, not silent—but slow and thoughtful, like the closing of a well-loved book.
And in that hour, just before the dark becomes complete, the world remembers how to be still.
A fox tucks her kits beneath her belly. A nightjar calls once—just once. Trees, too, seem to draw their roots a little deeper, grounding themselves in the lull of moonlight. Even I, paw-deep in leaves, slow my step. There’s no need to hurry. Not here.
When the forest sleeps, it does not forget us.
It stores our stories in bark and soil, in the curve of roots and the rhythm of rain. It keeps the echo of each footfall, the scent of every passing creature, the warmth of life held gently between branches.
So the next time you walk beneath trees, and dusk begins to settle in the corners—pause. Just for a moment. And if you’re very quiet, you might hear what I do:
Not silence, but memory.
Not darkness, but promise.
The forest is never truly asleep.
It’s simply dreaming.
