The tiny footsteps of my childhood are still under those leaves, on Catoctin Mountain in the northern woods of Maryland. They are the high-water mark of infinite dreamtime; that mystical, early phase in a human life when WONDER hasn't yet been distilled into cold science.
The most vulnerable aspect of youth is fantasy. In those years before the disease of "reason" turns the boy into the man, fantastic things still inhabit these forests--there ARE beasts in the trees. The hissing rush of wind in the leaves IS the sound of old spirits rushing to meet new ones, to induct them into the world of elders...the mother's milk of infinite vision.
To visit these places properly, one must be silent: The old folks who fly here may have dropped their bodies, but they're still elders & don't hear so well. They need to get their talking done first. You'll get your chance. Be silent.
So sit for a minute. Breathe in that spirit milk and maybe you'll catch a word or two before they see you sitting there and rush away, leaving you with the leaves and your thoughts...