Trees

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s huddled together, indistinct in the fog but apparently leaning in towards each other, whispering.</p><p id="ff4f">One branch clearly pointing in my direction, brushing just enough fog aside to make me look again, and then again: yes, pointing.</p><p id="ad75">For two, my ears were burning.</p><p id="261b">I was definitely being talked about. What I wouldn’t give to hear what they had to say. A little unsettling, though. Being whispered about. And a little impolite — I never lean towards my neighbors and whisper about these trees.</p><p id="0164">Do trees look down on us humans? Do they pity us? Should they?</p><p id="7254">I could think of a few reasons why they should, pity us. All the non-tree trouble we get ourselves in, constantly. All our procreative problems. All our pain and dashed hopes and plans, all non-tree.</p><p id="66e9">Then again, should humans pity trees?</p><p id="724b">Wouldn’t a tree life be a bit boring? Staying put all the time. Staying out of trouble all the time. So innocent.</p><p id="7f60">Or not so innocent — playing rootsie with other trees, or s

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o I’ve heard.</p><p id="dd7b">Still, trees probably don’t even know what boredom is or feels like, and if that’s the case, how could they possibly be bored? Maybe the tree life is the perfect, silent, always-in-the-present life — assuming they don’t accumulate memories, that is.</p><p id="7dd2">Can they read thoughts? I wonder as I watch the whispering gathering. They probably can, I don’t know why I conclude.</p><p id="5649">Wish I could read theirs.</p><p id="8f5c">© Wolfstuff</p><div id="f806" class="link-block"> <a href="http://wolfstuff.com"> <div> <div> <h2>Wolfstuff</h2> <div><h3>So, who am I? Really really. I could tell you that I was born in northern Sweden during a snow storm, and subsequently…</h3></div> <div><p>wolfstuff.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*4L8j_Jw0QMEF2Mye)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

Whispering About Me

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Trees in the mist whispering among themselves There he goes, the human

They know me by now. I’ve walked past them every morning for the last going on seven years.

As a rule, I don’t heed them. They’re just a small group of conifers by the edge of the unimpressive forest to my right as I head north, and to my left as I head back south. But this morning was different.

For one, the fog was dense. At times I could only see a dozen or so yards ahead and what cars I met I heard long before I saw them — making sure I stayed well to the side of the road, almost off the blacktop; no roadkill this morning.

Then the fog shifted a little, opened up as if a hand unfisting, and I could now see across the little meadow to my right and I could see that little group of trees huddled together, indistinct in the fog but apparently leaning in towards each other, whispering.

One branch clearly pointing in my direction, brushing just enough fog aside to make me look again, and then again: yes, pointing.

For two, my ears were burning.

I was definitely being talked about. What I wouldn’t give to hear what they had to say. A little unsettling, though. Being whispered about. And a little impolite — I never lean towards my neighbors and whisper about these trees.

Do trees look down on us humans? Do they pity us? Should they?

I could think of a few reasons why they should, pity us. All the non-tree trouble we get ourselves in, constantly. All our procreative problems. All our pain and dashed hopes and plans, all non-tree.

Then again, should humans pity trees?

Wouldn’t a tree life be a bit boring? Staying put all the time. Staying out of trouble all the time. So innocent.

Or not so innocent — playing rootsie with other trees, or so I’ve heard.

Still, trees probably don’t even know what boredom is or feels like, and if that’s the case, how could they possibly be bored? Maybe the tree life is the perfect, silent, always-in-the-present life — assuming they don’t accumulate memories, that is.

Can they read thoughts? I wonder as I watch the whispering gathering. They probably can, I don’t know why I conclude.

Wish I could read theirs.