Today the swamp grasses stand church solemn
in slim green. Just now, in this
almost dusk time, the sun tints their
sides with a sheen of light. As some
molecules fade away, I can see the Fall.
The smudged horizon's green echo looks
silent, impenetrable, morose. Pine trees with
heavy boughs bear down in a presentiment
of loss. I like the cottonwood, shaking delicacy
in the cool wind. I love how
they line rivers and streams, dangling
root toes in the water, curling into the mud.
The oak has pleasures; green acorns
dropping on our deck half eaten by
fattening squirrels. The itch of squirrels
running up their sides; busy chattering neighbors
followed by crows hoarse conversations and
this morning, the soft, intermittent hoot of the
owl.
They bear down, those trees not in a way
about birthing, but about rooted, about
standing as witnesses. Trees
are universal. Who, in our world, doesn't
know about the comfort of trees?
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