pin oaks

Limp lifeless dull rusty. Leftovers, more like tree clutter than adornment.

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.

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 present for somebody’s birthday.

The pin oaks shiver with the breeze, then they whisper to the wind.

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photograph from january 18, 2020