Just an hour. Under moorland trees. An hour to listen, to the weather, the flurries of rain. How they come and go. And the steady currents of wind. Force rising. Easing. Settling. Rising, rising again. Holding. Then easing. Blowing and sprinkling the falling raindrops over wide, waxy, sheltering leaves. 
In time. Slowly becoming aware, in the quietness, of how many different layers of sound are not just audible, but readable, in a tucked away place like this. Readable to us, like words scratched into smooth bark. You. Are. Safe. Here.
Because you have inherited the understanding of what the trees are saying, passed down by a million years of human evolution amongst trees. And you are immersed. And you are safe. Everything you are hearing is telling your vigilant brain there is nothing and no one about.  You. Here. Hidden. Up in the Derbyshire hills. Sat, on dry leaf litter, lent against a gently slanted tree trunk. Listening. Indistinguishable. 
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A thank you to the Lento Supporters Club.