Friday, March 29, 2013
The oak trees are silent in the dead heat of summer. Only the birds taking refuge in their green shade chatter and chirp. In fall, the least puff of air sets the dry brown leaves clicking like hundreds of castanets. Wind whistles through bare branches in winter. Only in spring do the oaks find their true voice. Sitting on the deck in the morning sun, I listened to the oak trees hum their song of spring in a light breeze yesterday. I was powerless to resist their sirens' call.