Come sit with me by the warm fire's glow, Let me tell you a story I heard long ago. About the Whistler in the Trees and the history, Of those who whistled back and how they ceased to be. We were just kids with a pocketknife dare, Kicking up ash, breathing pine in the air. Then that soft little tune slipped through the night, Like someone smiling, just out of sight. It wasn’t a bird, it wasn’t the wind, It had little pauses, like it tried to pretend. Three notes, then two, then a slow, dragging last, Like it was taking its time, letting seconds pass. We laughed at first, like you do when you’re scared, Tossing dumb jokes in the dark like a prayer. Mason said, “I can do it,” and raised up his chin, Like the woods were a stage and he wanted in. Don’t you whistle back, not even for fun. Don’t you answer the woods when the day is done. It’ll sound close by, then it’ll sound far, And it’ll lead you out past the last porch light’s bar. No, don’t you whistle back, keep your breath in your throat, Let the night have its song, let it die on its own. If you trade it a tune, you will lose what you knew, And the trees will keep walking around in your shoes. Mason puckered up, did the cleanest little call, Like he’d practiced it easy in the schoolyard hall. Right then the forest went quiet, dead still, Even the crickets cut out from the wind with a chill. Then something answered, not from where we heard, From behind us, right close, like a breath on a word. Same little melody, only lower and slow, Like it was learning his voice and making it its own. Mason laughed once, quick, like he’d won the game, Then he stopped, like he forgot his own name. He stood up too straight, eyes fixed on the black, Like something in the dark had tugged on his back. I grabbed at his sleeve, “Quit messing around,” But his arm felt loose, like it wasn’t nailed down. That whistle came again, soft as a cue, And his feet moved first, before Mason knew. We didn’t chase, not all the way, We watched him cross where the firelight frays. He didn’t look back, not even to check, Like he’d been called by something he had to respect. Don’t you whistle back, not even for fun. Don’t you answer the woods when the day is done. It’ll sound close by, then it’ll sound far, And it’ll lead you out past the last porch light’s bar. No, don’t you whistle back, keep your breath in your throat, Let the night have its song, let it die on its own. If you trade it a tune, you will lose what you knew, And the trees will keep walking around in your shoes. We waited till morning, like morning could help, Like daylight could drag him back by itself. We combed through the brush, we called out his name, But the woods stayed polite, like it had no blame. Found his cap by the creek where the cattails grow, Laid on the mud like it fell there slow. And three neat prints in the soft, wet clay, Then nothing after, like he stepped away. So if you’re out late and the woods start to sing, Don’t give it your tune, don’t give it a thing. Stare at the fire till your eyes start to blur, Let your friends do the talking, let the silence occur. And if someone beside you gets bright, gets brave, Put a hand on their shoulder, don’t let them play. Because the Whistler in the Trees is easy to please, It only needs you to answer, then it leaves with your keys.
