“The wind arose as they walked, and drove the fog across the pale moon like a thin wash of gray watercolor. The moving fog gave shifting form to the forest, so that every tree crept stealthily along and the bushes moved soundlessly, like great dark cats. The tree-tops in the wind talked huskily,
told fortunes and foretold deaths. Pilon knew it was not good to listen to the talking of the trees. No good ever came of knowing the future; and besides, this whispering was unholy.”
– From Chapter VIII of Tortilla Flat,
by John Steinbeck (1935)