Alone I sit by a fire in contemplation. Embers slowly turning to carbon return my gaze. A feeling of calm pervades my mind, like those embers once wood, my thoughts fade to black. Suddenly seemingly from nowhere, distant, comes a voice. No words can be discerned only their suggestion. So wise, so aged, far, yet near. Long since gone are the souls that make its' chorus. Leaf tongued arias, tales of the past, echo in my ears. Tall pines hemlock and cedar hold fast, as if guarding the secret of their being, only to be exposed by the voice. The caster of shadows, also whips the waves on the lakes in the wood. Some would call her the wind, I call her Algonquin's voice.