in the uppermost boughs of the tree , where the wood spindled away to the thinnest twigs , there the light breeze was still powerful enough to stir the structure , not allowing it a totally undisturbed rest ; the wind , insistent like a toddler pulling on the arm of its mother , desperate to attract her attention , revealed its constant , invisible presence by its action on the objects around it , a catalyst against which everything else was powerless : the rustle of leaves in the trees , the ripples on the surface of the river .