Next time you are the passenger, look out the window. Look up. Watch the oak trees. The way they lean into the sky. Doesn’t it seem like they are whispering about the secret kinship between things? At night, they get the moon tangled up in their branches. Caught thief.
With late fall, the last of the leaves have been swept away and the trees look naked without their jewels. The weather is often bitter cold, and they seem to be shivering their loneliness along with the rest of us. When I see those withered limbs, a great weariness, a weight inside that is normally muffled — agitates. I come quietly undone.