Dewdrops glisten on the branches, and the air is fresh, slightly cool from the passing night. Sunbeams dance through the veil of mist, and in the quiet, a small forest brook murmurs as it winds between moss-covered stones and roots.

The brook’s water is clear and cold, bubbling and flowing gently, its sound soft and soothing. Along its banks grow ferns and moss, and here and there, a solitary wood cranesbill blooms. High in the canopy, the bright, clear song of a song thrush rings out — its phrases shifting and following one another like a meditative poem.