Pin oaks are odd. They keep some leaves til spring. The leaves are ugly, more like tree clutter than adornment. Limp lifeless dull rusty. Nevertheless, on a February day, when the sky’s gray, and everything around you feels dreary and quiet, the wind picks up a bit, and there’s a soft rustle up above. High above.
It’s something like a hiss.
Like frozen crystals brushing by in an icy snow, tick, tick, tick, tick.
Or maybe the scraping a towhee makes when it’s tossing sticks and leaves under brush on a summer’s hunt.
A little softer than the crunch of fancy tissue we bunch around a gift for someone’s birthday.
Yeah, the pin oaks shiver. And then they whisper to the wind.
photograph from january 18, 2020