What do you do when the silence starts to feel like a presence?

I was standing at the edge of a clearcut yesterday, the air thick with the smell of wet soil and broken bark. The birds hadn’t returned yet—just the hollow echo of what used to be. And then I realized: I wasn’t listening for sound. I was listening for absence. It’s not just quiet. It’s like the forest is holding its breath. What do you do when the stillness stops being empty and starts feeling… watchful?