Sitting in bed, February afternoon, sunny, and the wind blows the trees, bends their trunks, sways their branches — bright blue winter sky — and white sunlight filters into the bedroom, and for some reason I feel like a young kid, maybe eight or ten, and the wind and the trees and sky make me think of library books, and that the world is full of wonder, and that a quest is out there waiting for me, and I get this feeling that perhaps it’s possible to believe in magic, in giant eagles and mountains that move and stallions that speak and all the things in tales and old songs.

All this, just from trees blowing in the wind.