It’s nearing the end of my workday, and somewhere nearby, Cleo is practicing patience.

Her head is heavy between her big paws while her cocoa eyes track my every move. She doesn’t need a clock to tell her it’s almost time that I shift my attention from the glaring screen onto her insatiable need for play. 

I close my computer, and Cleo springs to her paws, the wag of her fox-like tail stirring the air. She trots down the long hallway to the back door and kisses its brass knob with her wet black nose.

“Cleo, I need a moment,” I say, collapsing onto the couch. “Playing feels so…effortful.”

I hear the weight in her sigh as she slumps to the floor, and let my mind congeal in my iPhone’s endless scroll. But at some point, I notice the twitch in my left eye, the cramping in my upper back, and the dull ache in my hips from a day of sitting, and give in. I stand to stretch, drag my feet over to my shoes, and remind myself of a truth reserved for these moments of resistance: what is good for Cleo is usually good for me.

“Do you want to go for a short hike?” I call out. I hear the rushed click of her nails on the floor and soon she appears behind me, her eyes as big and alert as her ears, which shift like satellite dishes when I ask her again.

Reaching the trailhead is a quick 20-minute drive through the suburbs and up a small mountain. The temperature cools when we turn onto the switchback road, and I lower the windows to smell the rain-soaked grass, the blossoming white ginger, and the earthy tinge of forest decay. I ease into the sharp turns of the winding road and catch an occasional glimpse of Cleo in my side mirror, her head out the window, ears pinned back and nose wiggling high in the air. We drive past walls of running bamboo and through curtains of ivy vines hanging from branches and soon reach a small dirt parking lot. 

The trailhead is quiet during the week and sits at the feet of towering Cook Pine giants. The only sounds that break the silence are the rustling of the trees in the wind and the distant hums of cars passing by, while the waning evening sun filters through the canopy, casting scattered patches of light on all it touches.

Cleo leaps out of the backseat and rushes to the ferns growing at the entrance, sniffing every inch of every leaf. I nudge her with a loving pat on the back when I come up behind her, signaling that it’s time for her to follow. 

I’ve always loved this little trail and believe a certain peace carries in the wind here. So, we take our time. Cleo continues to sniff as we walk, and I ask her if she thinks we’ll have the trail all to ourselves (I accept her fervent bursts of inhales and exhales as a surefire “yes!”). How glad I am to be doing this, I think, and when Cleo brushes against my leg, I run my fingers over her velvety soft ears—a show of gratitude she knows well and returns with a lick on my palm.

Soon, I reach a clearing framing the urban sprawl of Honolulu with Diamond Head in the distance. I appreciate how detached—and yet still close to home—we are at that moment. I contemplate how many lives could change if everyone had the same ease of access to nature, and how powerful the connections made out here would be to those accustomed to zoning out.

The underbelly of the trees thickens, and we enter a stretch of shade. The bone-dry ground becomes moist and muddy, and the air smells of wet earth. I stop to let Cleo catch up, and during my pause, a white-rumped shama finds a perch on a branch beside me. Then, it sings, to the tune of a natural soprano, like a flutist giving a masterful solo.

“These are spiritual places, I believe, where understanding comes from attuning oneself to the rhythms of the natural world.”

I’ve stepped into their home, the understory, where birds of all kinds sing their forest hymns and conduct their scattered symphonies while they leap from branch to branch.

I stare at the shama, my neck cranked back and my mind captured by a stripped-down wonder. I whistle back to the bird and Cleo, beside me, swivels her head from the trees to me, then side to side, as she tries to understand what I am doing. I whistle and walk, and the shama quietly follows. More join as we go—I count six at one point—and together they watch, passively though closely, as we move through their turf. 

Then, it happens: one of the curious shama birds returns my song, note for note, and I stop in my tracks. Brimming with a childlike excitement and overwhelmed by the shared moment.

Days later, I would discover Mary Oliver’s poem “Such Singing in the Wild Branches,” which would feel like an echo of my experience. She describes lifting her senses to the treetops and immersing herself in the timeless trance of nature.

These are spiritual places, I believe, where understanding comes from attuning oneself to the rhythms of the natural world.

These places remind us of how profound and transcendent simplicity can be, only if we allow ourselves to embrace it.

The spell of the shama birds breaks to muffled thuds of boots behind me. I straighten myself and turn to see another hiker briskly approaching. I put Cleo on her leash and watch the birds fly off in my peripheral vision. The woman and I exchange nods as she passes and I unclip Cleo once she disappears around a bend.

I feel self-conscious for a moment—surely the woman, so serious in her step, must have thought I was crazy for staring into the trees, whistling into the air. But then I feel my footing again and quickly put a stop to such unproductive thoughts.

I look down at Cleo and realize she’s been holding me in her sweet, chocolaty gaze, her eyes singing with joy. Thanks to her, I am here, and I run my fingers over those impossibly soft ears once more. We take our time finishing the trail. Cleo’s nose returns to the ferns and I resume my song, humming into the shadows of the understory.

---

Such Singing in the Wild Branches

By Mary Oliver

It was spring

and finally I heard him

among the first leaves –

then I saw him clutching the limb

in an island of shade

with his red-brown feathers

all trim and neat for the new year.

First, I stood still

and thought of nothing.

Then I began to listen.

Then I was filled with gladness –

and that’s when it happened,

when I seemed to float,

to be, myself, a wing or a tree –

and I began to understand

what the bird was saying,

and the sands in the glass

stopped

for a pure white moment

while gravity sprinkled upward

like rain, rising,

and in fact

it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing –

it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed

not a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers,

and also the trees around them,

as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds

in the perfectly blue sky – all, all of them

were singing.

And, of course, yes, so it seemed,

so was I.

Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn’t last

for more than a few moments.

It’s one of those magical places wise people

like to talk about.

One of the things they say about it, that is true,

is that, once you’ve been there,

you’re there forever.

Listen, everyone has a chance.

Is it spring, is it morning?

Are there trees near you,

and does your own soul need comforting?

Quick, then – open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song

may already be drifting away.

---