I've been at work in the family pistachio grove these past few months, pruning and clearing branches. I find myself in an ongoing conversation with the trees. I apologize for my saws and shears, trying to explain the demands of cultivation. That wild rustling I hear sure feels like laughter at the city boy turned orchard keeper trying to tame this little bit of nature as they clutch at my hat, pierce my shirt, and try to knock me off my ladder.
The words I've discovered in this tree stand will likely find their way into new pieces for posting. In the meantime, check out Meter Readings and Writer's Footlocker for the pieces already posted there. . .