Sleeping forest

⏱ ~4 min reading

The forest never really sleeps at night. It just slumbers, like an old grandfather in a chair by the stove, his eyes closed but still hearing someone come in the door.

When evening descends over the land, the forest sighs. Quietly, quietly. First the wind dies down. Then the rustling of leaves falls silent. Then the birds stop calling each other, and the last titmouse, the smallest and most sonorous, finds a cozy branch, hides its head under its wing and closes its eyes.

The trees begin their nightly work. They sway—just barely, barely perceptibly, like a swing pushed not by the wind but by a kind hand. They rock all life beneath them. They rock the bugs in the mosses. They rock the ants in the anthills. They rock the little chicks that are huddled together in warm, fluffy barrels.

And the animals already know their places. The squirrel is curled up in a hollow. Its tail covers it like a blanket. The hedgehog has burrowed into the leaves under an old stump - it smells of mushrooms and warm earth there. The bunny is huddled against its mother's side. The fox cubs have hugged each other in a hole and are breathing quietly.

Everyone is sleeping. The forest guards their dreams.

And if you, little traveler, fall asleep today, listening to the forest, you will see a strange miracle. The Christmas trees will nod to you in your dream. They will nod with their green caps, on which a little snow is sleeping. They will say «good night» without words — just by moving a branch.

The pine trees will whisper a fairy tale to you. Their voice is resinous, warm, slow. They know a lot of stories - because they have been around for a long time. The pine trees will tell you about the fox who lost his shoe. About the stream that ran away from the stone. About the butterfly that saw the moon for the first time.

The old oak is the most respectable. Its bark is rough, like a grandfather's palm, and its voice is low, quiet. The oak will tell you about the ages. About how it was an acorn in the grass. How it popped out of the ground. How it grew slowly, without haste. The oak does not like to hurry. And you, listening to it, will also calm down. Your heart will beat more evenly. Your breathing will become deeper.

Birches - they sing thin melodies. Their leaves are silver in the moonlight. They tremble like little bells, and with every movement a gentle, quiet lullaby spreads through the forest. No words. Just sounds. But that's enough to make your soul feel calm and peaceful.

The forest is your great, kind friend. It knows thousands of fairy tales. And it is not greedy - it shares them with those who listen quietly, with their hearts.

In your dreams you can hear any. Just lie down in bed, tuck the blanket under your chin, and think about the forest. About the slumbering trees. About the sleepy animals. About the moon hanging over the meadow like a silver lamp.

Take your time. Just breathe. One inhale. Two exhale. One the trees swayed slightly. Two the leaf fell onto the moss.

And then — believe me — the journey will begin by itself.

You will see a path. Soft, mossy, warm. You will walk along it barefoot, and nothing will hurt, because it is a sleepy path. You will meet a hedgehog who will show you where a quiet stream lives. You will meet an owl who will nod at you with his round, wise eyes. And, perhaps, you will see the greatest secret of the forest - a clearing where all the animals sleep together, huddled in barrels, like one big, warm family.

Good night, little traveler. The trees are already waiting. The animals are already waiting. The moon is already peeking in your window and shining a soft silver ray on your blanket.

Go to them in your sleep. They love you. They will watch over you all night. And when morning comes, the forest will quietly open its sleepy eyes, stretch out, and you will wake up in a warm bed - full of strange, kind forest dreams. Good night.