I spoke to the trees
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.