The mist blankets the high Alpine forest.
As it does, a silence, as of snow, grows palpable between the trees.
Moisture is wrung from the air and falls from every leaf and branch like languid rain.
In an instant, the mountain mood is changed.
Somber magic pervades the swirling airs and ghostly shapes are half-seen with ancient senses.
The veils become thin and one feels the ancestors close and resonant.
Our inherent wildness reaches out beyond the cloak of modernity and knows these things as true.
Still and open, there is no need to play native, to bang drums or co-opt traditions.
Simply stopping and allowing, listening not talking, feeling and not thinking.
This is rewilding at heart.
Photo courtesy of the author.