The trees are alive. As I wandered through the woods on that rainy summer evening, I was convinced the trees had spoken to me. The creeks and groans as they strained against the weight of the pouring water were either questions or moans of torment. The creek burbled and splashed with each new drop of water in its home.

The thunder pounded and cracked after each flash of lightning. I held my arms close and swayed with the rhythm of it all. The melancholy thrum of the world in this dark and dismal place had my heart pounding. My blood burnt through my veins, nearly as loud in my ears as the rain falling all around me. The trees moved as I did, brushing back and forth in the wind, their leaves sticking to their branches as my hair did to my head and face. I laughed as I relinquished all control to this helter-skelter moment, allowing myself to be tossed about like a bag in the wind.

The lights in the house were coming on in the distance, far across the lush fields of beans and mud. I knew they were looking for me: beams of light were hurrying across the yard, and I knew they were calling my name to no avail as the rain washed their voices away. I turned to call a goodbye to my rough friends. Their strong, thick arms wrapped around me, hugging me close as they begged me to stay. I whispered a promise to return the next night and hurried home to insatiable warmth.