The forest whistled, crackled, cried,
As wind whipped through the icy trees;
I started toward a distant glade,
Some hours deep into the woods.
The cacaphonic sound distilled
And, quantized, settled to a chord;
An eerie tonic triad rang,
And filled my head with holy noise.
The sound was strange – directionless
But steady – as I neared the glade,
Within I saw four men I knew
On large grey stones at clearing's end.
The sun shone brightly from above
Four prophets sounding in my head
Their mouths alight with stately sound
As at the glade's green fringe I tread.