Wark?
It seemed like wind, wind blowing through the trees and through the feathers, comfortable and soothing at first but later one had to put them back in the right place so they didn't prick.
It prickles the mind, this not-wind.
One moves forward warily but not cautiously for there is nothing to fear. The familiar trees shift and change, grow young and die. Grass grows longer and time moves and swirls and falls apart. The desert bursts into flames and a lone tree grows, flowers blossom and fruit falls.
A bigger version of the boy who lives in the forest walks by and past fading and coming in again, already seated on a rock. He holds a piece of wood and runs his fingers across the strings attached and music plays, garbled and tremulous. The notes run together and stay in the air and tremble the feathers like the not-wind.
One takes another step. There is water, below and above and around and strange shimmering creatures that fly through it. There is a not-wind here as well, but this is something tangible.
Another step. A great castle looms and a face leers out of the moon.
Step. The wood instrument the man held, broken against the rock, continues playing. The man hangs from a tree, the metal strings holding him in place.
Step. A Chocobo is born and tries to hide behind its mother as the rest come forward to greet it.
Step. The forest shimmers and grows thick and solid and real.
The boy in the forest steps forward with his instrument and smiles.
Wark.