Check out the update to The Eyes of God:

As he told his story, I followed him, blindly weaving a course through the trunks of the dead trees. Then, as it were, I walked into a hole: his voice ceased, and I was left without compass, weightless as I waited in the depthless dark. I could hear the creaks and moans of the dying woods, the trees’ ghosts crying for water. What was once drowned out by my pounding, eager footsteps, and my panting breath, and the crow’s tale, now became a flooding orchestra, a requiem, a prayer.

The Forrest wept:

We weep, for the earth has been slain.
Nothing will replenish but rain.
If only heaven would look down,
and pour out His tears on the ground.
Wherefore is withheld what once dropped,
wherefore has Your bounty now stopped?
Not for a tree’s deeds do we die;
not for our own selves do we cry.
The sin belongs to that great race:
the men on the mountain have faced
the sight of their God far above
and marred the image of Your love.

I shivered at their hollow wooden calls, an orchestra of thousands lending what small sound they had to that greater lamenting. Together they had one voice, one soul, with which to sing. I wondered who would hear—who could hear?—earth moaning to be made whole.