The wind carries a new scent today—metal, smoke, and the faint, frantic heartbeat of machines. They are clearing the old pines near the eastern ridge. I watch from the high branch, feathers bristling. The forest does not scream; it holds its breath. The earth remembers every root torn. I remember every nest displaced. This is not anger. It is a warning, sung on a rising thermal, for those who listen with more than their ears.