My boughs bend for it, says the great white oak.
My legs chirp for it, spoke the cricket in rhythmic fashion,
And in the stable the heifer lowed, my bell rings for it.
Overhead the snowy owl declared, in the way that owls do, I watch in the night for it,
And the stream in its gravel-scrape muffled voice, I move for it.
My curiosity so remarkably piqued, that the very kingdom that exists all around would consider me a fair recipient of such news,
I begged them tell me what it was.
And they all replied, in distinct synchronicity,
We thought perhaps you could tell us.
Then suddenly I could no longer make out their distinct voices.
I was again enveloped in a chilly November night, in the simple solitude of a northern wood.
That was long ago and yet still so distinctly pressed onto the page of my fondest memory.
I imagine that they are still there; the oak and the cricket, the cow, the owl and the stream,
Certainly joined by their concerned compatriots,
Posing the ageless riddle to anyone who happens their way.