Barbarian Arbors

Fall is blowing in now.

Leaves fall.

I pray.

One particular season may not manifest itself as the finest ever experienced, but it has to have its time. It has to do what it does. Then it will leave and another will replace it. And it’s in the midst of the change that the natural skirmish renders man helpless to its effects. Hopeless for any chance to reverse its effects and become what it once was. It’ll have its chance again next year.

Under this hickory, I can hear the wind whisper where it’s been. I never hear it say where it’s going. Mindless gibberish filled with erratic fluctuations in pitch fill the air as the branches interpret what I never could have heard without them. And, I wait.

I wait to hear if the wind ever speaks of me.

My questions are many and people have been no help. Surely in this ever-repeating cycle the wind has learned something or seen another like me.

So, I listen.

Nothing.

It probably couldn’t have known the difference between cheeks like mine and mine. I’m troubled by things that do not torment the wind.