A stillness seems to accompany this opening in the forest, as if the clearing in the trees deserves to be honored by the world. Wind pulls at the tree tops, causing a chorus of quiet creaks and groans, but does not reach the ground. The moment is broken when out of the underbrush waddles a chortling quail, followed by a bevvy of peeping young. The quail stops as if she feels your gaze, cocks her head, and then turns right around and heads back into the brush, the babies hopping and tripping behind.

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