October came gloomy, cold and wet.
But today we are gifted with golden sunshine.
My trees look hopeful and lovely, welcoming and protecting, and I live gratefully in their shade. They all reach out to the west, toward the sunsets, which are magnificent.
I wonder, do they talk to each other, guard each other against the winds, the cold, complain about the squirrel and chipmunk circus, the chattering birds that live in their branches, maybe whisper of the owls that sleep silently in the oldest ones?
Do they look sharp when the hawks fly near, protective of the prey, or celebrate the respite from hunger for the hunter, or do they pay little attention to the life around them, focused instead on the sun, the sky, the wind?
I know only a few of their secrets.
Do they mourn the passing of the giant old ones, lost to chainsaws or root fungus, remember them fondly, tell their tales to the younger trees? Do they share their stories, encourage their babies, coo over the acorns?
I would love to sit at their roots and listen to them whisper, remembering back for centuries, before the towns came, before the forests were cleared, before they became relics of a once great tribe.
I will enjoy this sunny day with them, knowing that winter is coming, and wait with them for the Spring.
