Sometimes...when a bird cries out, or the wind sweeps through a tree, or a dog howls in a far off farm...I hold still and listen a long time.
My world turns and goes back to the place where, a thousand forgotten years ago, the bird and the blowing wind were like me, and were my brothers.
My soul turns into a tree, and an animal, and a cloud bank. Than…changed and odd it comes home and asks me questions...What should I reply?

Hermann Hesse