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From a work in progress:

February 8, 2015

When they speak, the trees hiss, a leaner, crueler sound than the trees in Southern Ontario. It’s not quite psithurism, because the trees up North have more needles than leaves, and therefore not quite that silver-creek breathy rustle that deciduous trees make in the breeze. Instead, black spruce makes a dry sound—almost a clickity-clack-paddy-whack, almost rain on glass or tears on a yet-to-be-washed plate. The sound makes me anxious. It also reassures me. It makes me cock my ears and listen to the trees hum whenever the generator is cut—the only time there is silence in camp.


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