Skip to content

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.

38094_734752793161_3536906_n

Advertisements
No comments yet

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: