Countless trees sway rhythmically beyond my window. They rustle softly, and their ambient motion is undetectable to all but the watchful eye. Yes, they are with certainty moving: under their own power, it would seem, as there is no wind of which to speak… but they move all the same.

Let’s go outside.

The view from my desk is such: rich balsam, their perpetual thirst briefly sated by the weeks of rain, their dense foliage like a dark green curtain veiling the wood beyond; red and white pines, stretching majestically into the gray sky, curved and gnarled in fanciful fashion as though trained by the hands of giants; paper birch, jutting like ragged bones from the soggy earth, no hint of buds on their bare white branches; sickly black spruce, slowly dying, hand in hand, their millions of stubborn black-green needles a final profession of their love for the sun.

I sit down at this desk, to this computer, today — just as I have in the many days past — with every intention of producing something: a poem, a chapter, a thought… a spreadsheet, when all else has failed. But in only moments, my attention is consumed entirely by these beings that seem to beckon me, as if to say…

Let’s go outside.

They wave for me — to me — knowing that I am the only creature wondering why it should be that they move without being moved. The arboreal things of this wood traverse them as naturally as a sailor might his ship’s heaving deck: the ceaseless motion a constant part of the pulse of his world, his steady feet attached to confident sea legs. The sighing leaves are like waves on the shore — the shore of my little world, no more than a tiny clearing in the big woods — whereupon this sea of green crashes hungrily. And suddenly, I have little else to say, beyond…

Why don’t we go outside?