Voices on the Wind Open Theme
The Tree Graces by Ken Boe The trees do not line the trail, the trails line the trees even since before trees, and there was somebody to tree them. We take our time, talking our way up into the mountain, breathing up and down each foot over each root meaning a thousand more meanings leading each thought over a thousand more trails. The trees do not form this language, we form language like birds building nests in the twigs of what reaches around us, branching off into other conversations which is not of their volition, but is our afterthought after having seen the cross through the corners of our eyes marking them up, scribbling over them with analogies which wander through the conversation. We came upon a giant boulder, a great chatterbox of ideas, in its own right, or our right of way, and this variable didnít move an inch, but our thoughts dug in. We held it in place, actually. The hostess last night, practically our prisoner, managed to keep us entertained. The trees growing on the back of my neck sink their roots deeper, stretching their backs: My pencil having broken when I read the first line; the great rock showed signs of cracking, or our signs put on their own show cracking the code of our questions with a big and bolder question which sunk even deeper into the possibility that we were guilty of something.