The trees here have voices. I was not prepared to hear them speak. I was ready for the birdsong, in all its rich glory, though I had not anticipated how each day brings its own gladness, its own rhythms and cadences. Some days speak quietly, reverently, while others ring with triumphal celebration.
But the trees... When the wind picks up it is not the wind I hear but the trees themselves. There is a collective power to them that takes my breath away. There is harmony and balance, deep notes and high, but their unity is undeniable. If only I could listen long enough and deeply enough, perhaps I could learn their language and understand the urgency of their call. But until I do, I stand still when they speak, feeling the protective comfort of their presence. For all that I am new and unknown to them, they have welcomed me. They tell me that I am home.
But the trees... When the wind picks up it is not the wind I hear but the trees themselves. There is a collective power to them that takes my breath away. There is harmony and balance, deep notes and high, but their unity is undeniable. If only I could listen long enough and deeply enough, perhaps I could learn their language and understand the urgency of their call. But until I do, I stand still when they speak, feeling the protective comfort of their presence. For all that I am new and unknown to them, they have welcomed me. They tell me that I am home.