I spoke to the trees

by DRM

http://flic.kr/p/89u8jJ

Photo by Daniel Staemmler

I was a deaf boy and the trees spoke to me.

I walked through the woods at night. The wind rioted around me, pulling at leaves and branches, try­ing to tear the roots from the ground. The moon­light turned hard and thin. The air was cold with the salt spray from the bay.

The trees moaned dully. Their voices gath­ered into a broad roar. The wind gave full throat, and I heard words take shape, creep out of from the wash of noise, whis­pers of tem­pests and mys­ter­ies. I ran, raced through the dark, my heels thump­ing hol­lowly on the hard earth, my heart pound­ing in my head, my breath ragged, push­ing past the banks of sound, crash­ing out into the the yard behind our house.

I stood and looked up at the trees.  Clouds scud­ded across the moon’s face. There was no sound. Every­thing moved like the silent images on an old strip of acetone.

In the morn­ing, I went back to the woods. They were quiet and hazy, soft like a lan­guid lover. I stepped softly into their embrace, whis­per­ing back to the trees the things that I had heard. They were silent as the air.