As the power goes out yet again on the island, I wonder about the trees, and, what kind of idiot is flying that prop plane that’s cruising over . . . as the big bright ferry remains parked at the terminal across the narrows.
But the trees are more interesting. I imagine them loving it, and dancing in the storm winds, exuberantly shouting yyyyyeeeaaaahhh! and wheeeeeee! (in tree language, naturally). Most of their lives, standing calm and strong, in no hurry at all . . . all that spiraling and branching out must be, at least partially, meant to be tested by the elements.
Even if they’re snapped in two, or blown over to expose their roots . . . as their spirit moves on, I wonder if there’s a collective woohoo! And high-fives for how awesomely they went out.
When I was a kid, I would love it when wind storms came around. Well, any storms really. Thunder is . . . an intensity one cannot know otherwise. I loved hanging out in a tree in our front yard, but even more so if it was windy. It wasn’t an enormous pine like some of the adventurers outside my window now, but tall enough to sway in a good breeze, and I would climb to the top. Coupled with the engulfing torrent of sounds and swirls, it was magic.
And when this storm passes, after the rains come to wash away the dust, we’ll have to step over some debris, looking up for the guilty parties . . . They’ll just be standing all innocent and stoic, those trees. What? Nothing to see here. Carry on.
Sure. Then why are you glowing so?