I speak to trees; they tell me their secrets. “Why do you you reach to the heavens?” I ask. Their leaves wave up and down, making sounds like rain. The heaven brings life in water. They quiet when the wind stops. The sun, they say, is silent. I hug this gentle creature, with skin softer than mine. I can chip it with my nails. It cannot hurt me with such brevity unless provoked by my carelessness. Light is captured in our veins, whisper the petals of quietly chattering flowers. Fire is our food, say the ashes.