I love to go out in the orchards at night, alone with my dog and the trees. The farm is different at night. During the day, you walk around and the trees just stand there, only rustling a little if you mark the motion of leaves by the distant mountains or clouds. But at night they see you coming and depending on their mood maybe you’ll see them move. They’re shy by nature, so you walk along a row and they stand back. They watch you. They whisper with the wind.
I’ve heard them talking. I’ve listened, and the things they say aren’t so strange as you think. They talk about water, how cold it is, on their roots, rising through the xylem and dripping from their leaves. They love the water more than anything. And like most beings in the world, they are afraid of men.
The trees talk about mountains, the Santa Lucias to the west, about the sweet cool air the wind brings from there, smelling of anise and wild radish. But the best thing, they say, is the ocean. They can’t imagine it; some nights the wind brings smells the trees don’t understand. The trees love this beautiful mystery. And Zeke moves along a row of almonds just ahead of me, sniffing the trunks. The dog and me, we listen and brethe and try not to frighten the trees. What we learn at night, we keep secret.
Kyle Kimberlin
May 23, 2004
for a novel in process
Metaphor 
