There is no gradual transition. We look up and see Redwoods towering over us. Quiet and strong, they’ve been growing watching the world change around them. We get out of the car and the ground feels different, the crunch of gravel softens to the subdued crackle of slightly damp wood chips. The freeway grows more and more muffled as we wander deeper into the forest. We look up and watch the trees sway back and forth as the wind bends their trunks. They swing a seemingly impossible amount but never break. The wind rustles the leaves. Unlike the wheat, the rustle sounds more earnest. There’s an immediacy that I feel I need to stop and listen to.