It might be the scotch.

It might be the scotch.

Trees are talking

Shaking their heads wildly

There is disagreement

And laughter

Leafy banter

Moptops shimmer

The whole length of

Their shapely trunk

Down to the knee bone

Shaking all over

Using the wind

To their advantage

Ceding here

Bending there

Adding grace to the movement

And so they sway.

I know the song

Whistle along

Wild is the wind

There is no conceding

Something about this

Relies on the mutuality

Of trust

The fight in me is long gone

Too worn down

To stand against it

I lean into the notion

Of motion

Using the whisper of leaves

As a disguise

For my lack of creativity

I am a philistine

The forest is not my home.

I am a visitor

They bide my presence

For as long as I can

Tolerate their disdain.

I am a parasite

They choose to ignore

The wind offers more of a challenge

They have met before

Will meet again

It is the nature of their dance

To have mastered the art

Of survival

I need to follow suit

If only I can make it home.