The Trees and the Breeze
(a composition in memoriam)
I’m missing the sound of the
breeze through trees: huge
elms, sprightly young maples,
steadfast oaks, the lighthearted
sycamore. I hadn’t meant it quite
so specifically as that; it was such
a quartet – an elm, a maple, an oak
and a sycamore – that made up a
sort of alcove into which nestled the
easternmost side of the home wherein
I was raised, making up the kids’ bed-
rooms (one for me and my twin brothers,
the other for my sister). I say that I had not
meant it so specifically because, I suppose,
it is often that I imagine the sound of a breeze
flowing through trees in the twenty-something
years that I have now lived without from within
where I live that specific and consistent sound,
which to me is such a pleasant sound, and one
that, by its very nature, conjures up so much
more than just the breezes and trees of its origin.
And more to my point, it is not a sound that solely
takes me back to childhood. For I have had the
luxury, the good fortune, the pleasure of studying
the sounds the wind co-creates as it is sifted by
a diversity of trees in locations that, were they
mapped, would quite literally crisscross this
awe-inspiring nation. For example, there’s
Jamaica Plain, near Boston in the great state
of Massachusetts, where I lived on a hill just
a house or two down from the Jamaica Plain
Cemetery, which cried out day and night (and
especially night) thanks to its proliferation of
elder arbor over the relatively ancient tomb-
stones and markers it protected; and, of
course, Bowling Green, Ohio (which, I
must admit, I remember more as a
flat and almost barren land, but I
do nevertheless recall, and with
ease, the distinct rustle the wind
made as it blew swiftly through
the spare standing timber that
wintry town had to offer; there was,
I recall with warmth, Ann Arbor, Michigan
(a treed town, as its name so proudly projects),
wherein, especially at night before sleep, I often
heard the sound of the trees as they were swayed
by what would be the chill winter wind (the sound
was enough for me; after all, why would I want to
freeze?); there was, I can recall, just like it were
now, the wind just outside my dorm windows
on Hendrix Campus in Conway, Arkansas;
there was even a medley or two of some
merit that rang through from the solitary
trees of my urban apartment in a pre-
gentrified downtown Little Rock, where
I lived for a while upon graduation; and,
oh, the joyous noises that spring to my
mind as if directly from Toledo, Ohio,
in which I resided for five or six
years and, when ambulatory
enough (I spent years without
functioning transportation in
some of the worst locations
with which to be without – and
Toledo wins that competition
with gusto), I’d go running – into,
out of, through and around – the
thickets of Wildwood Park, often
around dusk. The wind through
the trees in each of the locations
I have called home run through
my head with some persistence
and consistence and with no
small amount of insistence,
and at such varying speeds,
the tunes are as diverse as
there are species of trees,
I suppose (and there are
over 60,000 of these; I
looked it up), as multi-
various as there are
moods (or is this just
me, I wonder). And so,
it’s no small thing this
is for me, to imagine
the sound a breeze
makes as it blows
through an assortment
of trees, or maybe just
through a single, solitary
tree. Either way, it’s a
comfort and a way to
place myself on this
earth and a method
or mode of remem-
bering, which is
always for me so
key, as you may
well know (and if
by chance you do,
you might note
that this is another
of life’s greatest
pleasures, and I
am so thankful; it
is always a comfort
to me, as well, but
today we are talking
breezes and trees),
and now most esp-
ecially, given that
there are no trees
which I can presently
hear out my window,
and it’s been a bit too
long, I’d add, some
twenty-odd years,
as I may already
have mentioned,
since existed any
tree nearby enough
to what I call home,
and so I do hope
that you won’t
mind terribly
my rambling
on at such
length over
the map of
my existence,
as it were, in
relation to that
sound to which
I now can only
imaginatively
listen, of a
breeze as it
whistles and
whooshes past
us and the trees,
with which it in-
variably creates
a collaborative,
and one always
unique, as it
twists and it
swirls around
each tree in its
path; it’s a piece
that becomes for
me, at least, as
the sound that is
built by the two
intermixing alights
upon an ear, that is
either of mine, so
the sound that is
made, the song
that I hear, has
become (is becom-
ing) a moment re-
membered that
just by its comings
and goings it has
composed (creates).
(a composition in memoriam)
I’m missing the sound of the
breeze through trees: huge
elms, sprightly young maples,
steadfast oaks, the lighthearted
sycamore. I hadn’t meant it quite
so specifically as that; it was such
a quartet – an elm, a maple, an oak
and a sycamore – that made up a
sort of alcove into which nestled the
easternmost side of the home wherein
I was raised, making up the kids’ bed-
rooms (one for me and my twin brothers,
the other for my sister). I say that I had not
meant it so specifically because, I suppose,
it is often that I imagine the sound of a breeze
flowing through trees in the twenty-something
years that I have now lived without from within
where I live that specific and consistent sound,
which to me is such a pleasant sound, and one
that, by its very nature, conjures up so much
more than just the breezes and trees of its origin.
And more to my point, it is not a sound that solely
takes me back to childhood. For I have had the
luxury, the good fortune, the pleasure of studying
the sounds the wind co-creates as it is sifted by
a diversity of trees in locations that, were they
mapped, would quite literally crisscross this
awe-inspiring nation. For example, there’s
Jamaica Plain, near Boston in the great state
of Massachusetts, where I lived on a hill just
a house or two down from the Jamaica Plain
Cemetery, which cried out day and night (and
especially night) thanks to its proliferation of
elder arbor over the relatively ancient tomb-
stones and markers it protected; and, of
course, Bowling Green, Ohio (which, I
must admit, I remember more as a
flat and almost barren land, but I
do nevertheless recall, and with
ease, the distinct rustle the wind
made as it blew swiftly through
the spare standing timber that
wintry town had to offer; there was,
I recall with warmth, Ann Arbor, Michigan
(a treed town, as its name so proudly projects),
wherein, especially at night before sleep, I often
heard the sound of the trees as they were swayed
by what would be the chill winter wind (the sound
was enough for me; after all, why would I want to
freeze?); there was, I can recall, just like it were
now, the wind just outside my dorm windows
on Hendrix Campus in Conway, Arkansas;
there was even a medley or two of some
merit that rang through from the solitary
trees of my urban apartment in a pre-
gentrified downtown Little Rock, where
I lived for a while upon graduation; and,
oh, the joyous noises that spring to my
mind as if directly from Toledo, Ohio,
in which I resided for five or six
years and, when ambulatory
enough (I spent years without
functioning transportation in
some of the worst locations
with which to be without – and
Toledo wins that competition
with gusto), I’d go running – into,
out of, through and around – the
thickets of Wildwood Park, often
around dusk. The wind through
the trees in each of the locations
I have called home run through
my head with some persistence
and consistence and with no
small amount of insistence,
and at such varying speeds,
the tunes are as diverse as
there are species of trees,
I suppose (and there are
over 60,000 of these; I
looked it up), as multi-
various as there are
moods (or is this just
me, I wonder). And so,
it’s no small thing this
is for me, to imagine
the sound a breeze
makes as it blows
through an assortment
of trees, or maybe just
through a single, solitary
tree. Either way, it’s a
comfort and a way to
place myself on this
earth and a method
or mode of remem-
bering, which is
always for me so
key, as you may
well know (and if
by chance you do,
you might note
that this is another
of life’s greatest
pleasures, and I
am so thankful; it
is always a comfort
to me, as well, but
today we are talking
breezes and trees),
and now most esp-
ecially, given that
there are no trees
which I can presently
hear out my window,
and it’s been a bit too
long, I’d add, some
twenty-odd years,
as I may already
have mentioned,
since existed any
tree nearby enough
to what I call home,
and so I do hope
that you won’t
mind terribly
my rambling
on at such
length over
the map of
my existence,
as it were, in
relation to that
sound to which
I now can only
imaginatively
listen, of a
breeze as it
whistles and
whooshes past
us and the trees,
with which it in-
variably creates
a collaborative,
and one always
unique, as it
twists and it
swirls around
each tree in its
path; it’s a piece
that becomes for
me, at least, as
the sound that is
built by the two
intermixing alights
upon an ear, that is
either of mine, so
the sound that is
made, the song
that I hear, has
become (is becom-
ing) a moment re-
membered that
just by its comings
and goings it has
composed (creates).
