to hear the trees talk

Hiding beneath a blanket of daylight, 
I hear them. 

They don't know I'm here, 
a human buried in their presence,

listening to them hum their language of old 
twisted tongue and the wind whistling 

between their teeth. 
The sun's rays move around their bodies,

and they titter at the thought of being 
draped in robes of solar power. 

They imagine the bugs crawling 
on their limbs are pets, 

giving them names to dote upon, 
the birds are their friends,

the fox slinking nearby
a stranger. 

The trees entertain
the idea of humans, 

the same way we humor the view of a dog. 
But beneath that, a hint of loathing, 

a whisper of war in their hearts. 
We have killed too many of them, 

their kind cut in half 
as we cut them with axes. 

To be a tree is to be ethereal, 
but it is to also be endangered. 

A bug flies up my nose, 
and I sneeze. 

The forest falls silent
as it always is, 

but I heard the trees talk. 
I did.