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He lives with his wife and two daughters in a small town on the outskirts of Austin, Texas, where the trees have only managed to attack with allergens. So far...
Natalie's eyes were wet, shining. "Listen."
I stood very still, trying to hear whatever it was she heard, registering only the wind whispering through the leaves, almost like voices. Then I realized how completely still it was. No breeze shook the branches; they were motionless, surrounded by dead air. Still I heard the sounds, the voices of the trees, an endless conversation of limb and leaf.
"Listen," Natalie repeated, and I watched her as she entered the small bowl of ground guarded by the seven trees, watched as she slowly sank to her knees and closed her eyes. And, listening, I heard the song.
It started as soon as she'd taken her place in their midst; the whispering changed, gathered itself into an orchestrated whole, rose in volume and pitch as it became a music too incredible for any words to describe, too painfully honest for man to create. It was the sound of pure love, pouring out from the heart of the grove. Natalie's grove.
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