The thing you need to know, child, is that trees do speak, they do tell tales, they sing when they’ve a mind to, they are gigglers, gossips, grumblers cataloging every ache and pain, and yet they hold no grudges, claim no debts, speak ill of no creature. They have their tempers, yes, tantrums of branches lashed in gusts and gales, but then they come to rest in stillness, spent, humming contentedly. You’ve heard them child, just yesterday. You though it was only the wind. The thing you need to know is that by dawn-light every tree stands tall and chants its name, its history, its kinship web and lineage. You’ve heard them child. You thought it was the dawn chorus of birds. The thing you need to know is that the trees tell stories older than the oldest tales of humankind: by dusk, by night, by starlight, you have heard their midnight murmuring. You told me so. You thought it was just water running in the stream. The thing you need to know, child, is that trees do speak in their own language. They mutter with the rustle of old brown leaves, they sigh with the snow drifting at their feet, they utter exquisite arboreal poems as each new tender unfurls, they laugh in shivers of green and gold tickled by a passing breeze. The thing you need to know, child, is that the trees do speak, in the tree language. And yes, you will understand their speech one day, root child, sweet sapling.

“The job of the artist is always to deepen the mystery.” - Francis Bacon