The pine trees sway in an unseen breeze, needles rustle noisily in the breath. The stars shine like pin-pricks of light through a pitch black blanket overhead. The moon rises, drifting over the treetops. In the distance, an eerie sound begins to drift upwards over the trees, hauntingly beautiful, the pitch rising and falling, gently rolling. My hair stands on end, lifting. A shiver passes through me. I hear it again, the mournful tone wavering, in the darkness, from far off it echoes in the night. I wish I could respond, sing in response to the song, but I do not know the language. Its haunting melody sings of loneliness, of sadness, hunger, its tone is wild, untamed, free. From another spot in the darkness, a call answers, singing along with the lone wolf. Soon the forest is alive with the song of wolves. And I look up at the stars, listening, to their song.