JB told me months ago about how he was in his tree stand near the cabin and the sound seemed to fill his body from the inside out. At first I thought I was having a stroke, he said, shaking his head. I couldn’t imagine such a thing until we were out in that same area yesterday and the noise grew from the pine-scented air around us, escalating in intensity until you felt it like the heartbeat of the forest. It did seem oddly internal, the bass from a concert, somehow both foreign and intimate. My brain skittered around trying to associate it with something familiar: a helicopter coming in for a landing, a mallet striking a drum, a rubber ball losing energy as its bounces become shorter and faster.
Like this, but deeper, louder, everywhere.
We never saw it, because the woods are thick with a million green secrets. That was AWESOME, the kids shouted. I worriedly imagine freaky heartbeat-monsters descending from above to devour us in ravenous gulps; they tumble through the endless blackberry-choked paths and press eager fingers into muddy animal prints. They dive comfortably into the mystery of the trees, fearless and happy and curious about it all.