there was a sort of whisper in the forest, an amalgam of winds that thrashed this way and that, whistled down corridors, roared in the canopy, of limbs outstretched, trying to overcome their shyness, of the transfer of nutrients between intertwined roots, of inosculating trunks, branches, of fluctuations in the habits of networks of penetrating mycelia, of the fading and flourishing of mosses and lichen, of creeks forging new paths, enthused with the surge of snowmelt in higher altitudes, of the changes in atmospheric pressure, of the unrelenting certainty of downpours, the influx of positively charged ions, of the size and weight and frequency and distribution of rain droplets, of their paths both well-worn and infinitely varied towards the tender earth, of the subterranean activities of beetles on the rotting deadwood, of the tendril perversion of vining plants, of the arboreal locomotion of small animals, of twigs that small birds assembled here, set up camp, a cornucopia of the remotest extremities of all the other trees in the area, of the murmuration of swallows, of birdsong, the cascading patterns of which, undulating, propagating from tree to tree, of the movements of birds and pollinators rudely probing us, of the rhythmic pulse of fireflies and the soft persistent glow of bioluminescent fungi, of the tickling of swordferns, of the tightening grips of epiphytic plants, of the whirring of twirling samaras, of the shafts of light softly filtered through leaves, through the dusty, amber forest haze, of softly dappled light fairies, that Jimmy, who I had not seen since we were mere saplings really, was stricken with another infected canker, from which he would this time most likely not recover, would not have long before being delivered most finally to the forest floor, and I, forever fixed to this point now, entertained no hope of seeing my brother again, or any of them really, no notion of family now save for these memories, save for this innumerable collection of trees all clinging to this green earth I suppose, recalling afresh the agony of the first time we were separated, back in the nursery, my baby brother, a mere sapling, too young then to join me and Albert and Mary, hearing, when we were reunited, of the ghastly destruction brought by the storm of ‘39 to greenhouse 4B, a terror from which he never fully recovered, would continue to shake his leaves in a manner, though almost imperceptible, most unnatural, felt so dead inside for so long, which is funny because I am mostly dead inside, and that dream I always had, the one where I uprooted myself and could move around freely, where I seemed to know where Jimmy was and took myself on a little trip over there, paid him a visit, he made me tea and fried up some eggs, eggs in a basket, nice little nestegg, and we sat in the little garden that he tended, talked about mom and dad, which was strange because i knew that mom took many lovers, in a sense, birds and the bees, but in the dream
jimmy (wip)