As the hawk glides in, the old, open grown oak and the morning fog are singing, lightly, to each other, of stillness and cool moisture, the oak radiating a slow melody, the fog testing harmonies here and there. As the hawk flares its wings and lands on a high branch, they fall nearly mute. The oak preoccupies itself with dripping leaves, the fog with a breathy sighing. Then the bird takes up the oboe of magnificent silence. The oak provides a soft bass, the fog, over its shoulder, an invisible, fading flute.