Sitting here listening to the leaves rustle in whispers; they’re talking to me but I can’t understand them, even when they move about louder, making me wish the wind would whip me off my feet.
The day is hot but not too hot—sometimes I can feel a flush come to my cheeks but then it goes away faster than I can notice it.
The bushes glow in shades of green, brown and fuchsia pink. It suits them, reserved for they do not move about with the wind like the cottonwood leaves.
The cottonwood leaves are a vibrant green, screaming “Look at me!” all hyped up in their invisible ride, the Northern Wind. They are huge, and now they are quiet.
Beside them sits the pine. He is smaller but dignified in his own way. The wind barely stirs him. He reminds me of an older man, bent and gnarled, the green of his youth still there but his old age apparent in the dying brown branches that protr