May


It is May. The pecan leaves have been set for only a few weeks, yet I find myself forgetting the time when the branches were still and bare. The trees are alive now, a single limb full of leaves begins to quiver in the wind, then echoes throughout, rippling from bough to bough, leaf to leaf. If trees spoke, their voice would sound like the wind. A part of me believes that indeed this is the case, that the leaves are telling secrets or singing a song. That it isn’t just a change in temperature or shift in pressure that breathes through the air, perhaps the leaves are speaking in these quiet moments. Of course, it is just a thought, I tell myself it cannot be true. It happens again, a leaf shakes, the others respond, reverberating through everything. I tell myself it cannot be, these trees are not speaking, it is only the wind, then I tell myself that it doesn’t matter; our breath and our voices are indistinguishable from one another as the breeze swirls and envelopes us.

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