Today the poplars in front of my window are strangely peaceful. Erect and quiet. Only at the top, the smallest, finest twigs passionately quiver. I have watched those trees ever since I had moved here. They are here for me to enjoy and learn.
Dressed in the autumn gold, the trees rustle and glitter in the sunshine. Some days, its vibration slowly spreads from the softest leaves to the tiny tender twigs, involving the larger branches, then the whole body of the fully developed trees.
The larger and stronger one is he. The softer, more restless, is she. In the days when the storm approaches, my trees are the first to sense it. She starts trembling and clinging to him, seeking protection. He stays calm much longer, but gradually becomes restless, too, till their joint trembling, swaying and swinging, turns into a passionate, desperate play full of restrained emotion, silent despair and a wild joy, in spite of everything.
Some days I watch my poplars with teary eyes, so it makes them quiver inwardly, as if sensing my agitation. Sometimes, though, they share my joy and vibrate in the same rhythm of my excitement.
Today the poplars are strangely peaceful. Erect and quiet. And my eyes are dry.