“Wheeeee clacka tacka tacka wha ha ha ha ha . . .”
— William Carlos Williams, Trees
Whatever they are saying, it’s not funny today: this willow swings its hair like a woman who has lost her child and cares for nothing, least of all herself. They cover the earth, these trees, and code the winds and speak across abysses to each other. Their blind roots touch beneath mountain ranges and under oceans they sigh messages that mingle with whale’s songs, wolf cries, and whispers of all the dying species. Another poet asked: if the trees gushed blood would we stop cutting them? We wouldn’t, of course, and they know it. That’s why whatever they are saying has nothing to do with us.