白色的黎明。静止。当水波开始荡起时，我以为是海风，海风吹到我们的山谷，带来了盐的传闻，没有树木的地平线。但是白雾不动;我的兄弟们的叶子仍然伸展着，一动不动。然而水波越来越近了?然后，我自己最外面的树枝开始刺痛，几乎就像下面有火被点燃了一样，太近了，它们的小枝尖端正在干燥和卷曲。然而我并不害怕，只是非常警惕。我是第一个看到他的，因为我是在森林那边的牧场上长大的。他似乎是一个人:两根活动的茎，短的树干，两根灵活的臂膀，每根末端都有五根没有叶子的小枝，头上有棕色或金色的草，脸不像鸟的喙脸，更像花的脸。 He carried a burden made of some cut branch bent while it was green, strands of a vine tight-stretched across it. From this, when he touched it, and from his voice which unlike the wind's voice had no need of our leaves and branches to complete its sound, came the ripple. But it was now no longer a ripple (he had come near and stopped in my first shadow) it was a wave that bathed me as if rain rose from below and around me instead of falling. And what I felt was no longer a dry tingling: I seemed to be singing as he sang, I seemed to know what the lark knows; all my sap was mounting towards the sun that by now had risen, the mist was rising, the grass was drying, yet my roots felt music moisten them deep under earth. He came still closer, leaned on my trunk: the bark thrilled like a leaf still-folded. Music! There was no twig of me not trembling with joy and fear. Then as he sang it was no longer sounds only that made the music: he spoke, and as no tree listens I listened, and language &nbs