Listening

I'm a very handsome guy, he thought to himself as he climbed the oak tree next to his home. The oak seemed to call to him from some weird, random place, and he listened; he resolved this year that he would. Listen. Enjoy the quiet and take it in. So that he might.

And he was becoming. Better, that is. Taking it all in, the rustle of the branches in this unusually cold, early January. It whistles sometimes. Creaks. Occasionally when he's outside late, collecting firewood or walking his dog he'll even hear groans. It's as though nature is an old man or woman with arthritic bones, just waking.

It spoke to him. The tree. It told him to climb. Really. Reach with me. See how I reach higher. My limbs stretch to the sky, to the heavens. They yearn.

And so did he. Kept higher. Climbing. He wasn't just handsome. He was dashing. As he climbed. Adventurous. Maybe like Icarus I can fly, he thought. Beauty in motion. Sailing in the wind like a gull.

The wings. They were made of wax.

He was listening. The tree. It spoke to him.

Climb, it said. Fly.