<p>
	As part of training, Paul gave each intern a 25 foot long piece of string and tasked us with creating a 5 -10 minute interpretive talk focused on whatever we liked so long as it was within our stretch of string. I stopped along the trail, rolled out my string and thought about what I might say. Then it hit me. &nbsp;</p>
<p>
	<img alt="" src="{filedir_5}Forest.jpg" style="width: 200px; height: 134px; float: right;" />The quietness, the stillness, the tranquility. The kind of quietness that only comes to the forests of Northern Michigan during two seasons of the year: fall and winter. The songs of the multitudes of warblers, vireos, sparrows, wrens, and flycatchers that once inhabited this area have gone with the birds further south to warmer areas. Occasionally a blue jay, chickadee, or nuthatch will vocally reveal its location; but mostly the forest is quiet. &nbsp;</p>
<p>
	A bird flits around in some nearby branches, distracting me. I get up, hold my binoculars at the ready, only to find out that it has flown away; it&#39;s identity will remain unknown. My mind cycles through the possibilities, resting on, &ldquo;Maybe it was a rare vagrant from a far away land?&rdquo; Then it hits me again, as if the forest is trying to teach me something else. &nbsp;My thoughts are flooded by the necessity of stillness and reflection. &nbsp;These kinds of deep thoughts only come to me, seemingly, when I&#39;m in the forest and only after the spring and summer occupants have gone.</p>
