The fox had never spoken to the trees, nor had the trees ever spoken to him. He knew they could talk, though, for he often heard them calling as they swept through the fields in the dead of night. To whom they were calling, he couldn’t say. Perhaps it was to other trees the same as them, and that they were attempting to alert them to their presence like two lost souls crying out for each other after being dragged out to sea by the tentacles of some watery beast. On the other hand—or paw—they could be singing to themselves, celebrating the very act of being here the same way all species of animals celebrated the act of being here, even if it was by simply sitting in the sun, feeling at one with all things. Either way, the trees were alive, and much like everyone else, they were on a journey. Sometimes, if he were feeling brave, he would travel with them as they marched ever on into the night, but each time he did, he found himself lost in the fog that would inevitably swirl around their roots. When he woke hours later, the sun would shine upon him as he lie sprawled in his den of sticks, and it was as if the previous night had been a dream. When the following evening came around, though, again, he found himself swept away by the trees and lost in the fog that would kiss his nose and pinch his heels. It was a perpetual cycle, and yet he wouldn’t change it for anything, for the chase was what made him feel alive, and here he was, gazing into the eyes of a young girl who felt the very same thing.