Much of the vocabulary of movement- of exhalation and inspiration- reflects the capillary processes of trees. The fractal attenuation of trunks to twigs parallels the circulatory systems of humans and rivers. From above, the Mississippi delta resembles a tree. Histologies from the brain's seat of sensory and motor control look like trees.
In the woods, as the sun crosses the sky, trees draw and redraw their reciprocal forms in shadows on the ground, their canopies like umbrellas. Being alone among trees is to be immersed.
After a hurricane, empty pilings stand where houses used to be. Torn and spindled stumps are what remain of missing trees.
Once I drove a long way to visit a venerable old tree. But to reach it, protected by a three mile moat, I needed a canoe.
Day by day, Louisiana cedes its wetlands to the rising sea levels. In a storm, the waters rise, our furniture floats, and we wade through the streets. The weather grows ever more unpredictable. The wind and water shape us.
The Mississippi clogs with sediment. An artery in the brain obstructs and explodes.
First the housing bubble, the sprawl and pre-fab, now fallow subdivisions. Young trees, loose-grained, their growth spurts unfurled are laminated into plywood; as posts they lift houses ever higher from encroaching tides.
The flow is inexorable.