Not since a bothersome plague of anxiety attacks in my early 20s have I had the feeling that trees are watching me. A few days ago, over dinner preparations at my father's house, I looked up at the autumnal branches all stretched and still, and it struck me suddenly that trees were alive: not walking, but very much breathing, growing, and feeling. I had to interrupt the flow of talk as a blunt sensation of eeriness folded itself into my brain. I remembered how creepy I used to think nature was, with its non-mammal ways of enlarging slowly in one fixed spot, and the way that some trees looked like frozen explosions, while others hung limp, and yet others were stark, strong shields. A silent band of aliens watching me. I've since reacquainted myself with them, but every now and then there is this residual twinge of disturbing uncertainty. I suppose I'm a bit addicted to anthropomorphism, but I'm including the picture above as the tree in question really did look out of breath, as though it were briefly leaning on the brickwork for support before resuming its activities.
