Ida B.

I watch her come. She comes like a dream. The wind catches her green cloak behind her, lifting it for a moment and revealing the fabric of her mother’s dress. She looks behind her as she comes. She looks around. She reaches into her basket.

“Hello,” she whispers, as she looks into our leaves and the wind travels through them.

The wind is our friend. The wind is her friend. It carries the secrets of our hearts, gathering them as it gathers the breath from our leaves. It gathers our secrets and carries them we know not where. It shares our secrets with strangers and we stand guard over our hearts. We stand guard and wait for the strangers to come. But she is the only one.

She lifts her gift from the basket and holds it out for the wind. The wind catches it up and carries it, scattering it through our branches. The dust settles on our leaves and we drink it. We breathe it in, this fresh air from afar.

The girl walks among us. She leans against our trunks and listens to our hearts. She hears them beat within us. She listens to the sap coursing through our veins. She listens and hears.

I tell her my secrets. She tells me hers. I look into her eyes and she looks into mine. She, the only one to know where to look to see my eyes.

And then she disappears again. She vanishes the way she came, the green of her cloak fading into the underbrush.