Whisper of Wind

Jun 9, 2016 by

The whisper of wind in firs will take me home, faster than anything. Back to the cottage that my father built when I was small, set in the woods, up a long graveled road. He built a deck around three sides, built it around three giant firs as well.

My bed was tucked under the slanted ceilings of the loft, and there I dreamed of growing up and fame and gallant things.

On winter nights the rain drummed me to sleep, on summer mornings I woke to squirrels dropping fir cones on the roof and cawing jays in treetops far above.

The trees were my protectors and friends, the guardians of my childhood, my summer shade and winter sentinels. And how I loved them: fierce unfettered love with which I loved all good, green living things.

The sound of wind in firs still takes me home, faster than anything. As memory's window opens, I am there, under their whisperings.

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