The rain falls like it should upon forests. Sat at my desk thinking of water sluicing mud upon moss, or the sweet smelling rot of leaves in a pine forest, I heard an odd noise. It sounded like wolves howling in the distance. I went and stood by the open door, watching the rain and inhaling the scent of wet wood and concrete. I heard nothing. The wolves had gone from the world, though their distant unreal howling still echoed about my head. And yet, as I write, I hear them again. An urgent reminder, but for what? From where?