Follow Me
Trees whisper to us.
Foretelling the oncoming storm.
Speaking in noises abstract like the cracking of the churchyard yew.
Conflicting, sudden gusts in their heights keeping one’s spirit alert.
A change in the wind, a new breath of air is on its way; a fresh story to be told.
Murmurings of memories blown in from the past.
Where did Scout hide the Indian head coin?
Safely, secretly stashed, preciously known only by the child.
Dancing leaves, dancing and uncaring as to whom is watching, the eyes of the wild or the tame.
Branches and twigs, ever-changing, yet always the same.
Totemic, markers, symbols, icons, monuments;
Forceful, reliable friends whose elementary strive for light, water, and respect.
How do they tell their tales?
Trees whisper to us.