Birch bark

It’s been so rainy here in New Hampshire, even the bark on downed birches is curling with moisture. Yesterday morning I accidentally left a chewable Vitamin C pill on my kitchen table, and by lunchtime the powder-dry pill had absorbed enough humidity to become wet to the touch, as if it had lain under nature’s tongue.

Stump and trunk

On Tuesday we had a respite: a partly cloudy day when Reggie and I walked along the rain-swollen river, Reggie wading and sniffing while I snapped pictures. I’ve been meaning to write about trees in preparation for the upcoming carnival, but the trees themselves were mute, unwilling to share inspiration with a stranger who hasn’t been to call since leaving for Ohio some three weeks ago.

If you’ve been away from a place–even if you call that place home–for more than a few weeks, you feel like a stranger when you return. When I left New Hampshire at the beginning of June, most but not all the trees had begun to leaf, and now the woods along the Ashuelot River here in Keene are heavy with lushness, green leaves nearly dripping with fecundity. The trees along the Ashuelot River seem almost as swollen as the river itself, their burden of green threatening to overlap the brimming verge of path and shore. Any wooded walk these days moves through a green tunnel, a wending tube of green fertility stretching toward infinity in either direction.

How are the trees in your neck of the woods doing these days? There’s still time to contribute to this weekend’s Festival of the Trees, a blog carnival celebrating all things arboreal. For more information on the carnival, click here: like the Lorax, you too can speak for the trees, for the trees (unlike nature) have no tongues.