I'm carrying weights too. I love their symbolizing my inner toil, my inner penance. I'm under this wonderful shifting umbrella, this shifting shadow and light canopy under yet another on-coming breeze. A thousand voices, these maples and oaks that see it all, record it all.
Standing tall, standing stately, they're okay they're barely noticed. They have a greater order to attend. And I feel a surge of this in my veins, propelling my march onward, hovered over by royalty.
Years ago I used to try to whip up a little fun and awe in my daughter telling her the trees are talking. At her age she was willing. We would make up conversations, theorizing what they said.