The aspen trees have a different energy than the cacti that I am used to. It appears as though the knots on their trunks are watchful eyes. As I stare into them, my imagination takes over, and I wonder, could they be watching me? A leaf falls. I look up. Suddenly, I feel small. Their billowing branches softly sway in the wind, as though they are speaking a foreign language that only a tree would know, and a bird would hear. And as I wandered through their forrest, further into their enchantment and mystery, I wondered, could they secretly be whispering about me? I think they’d laugh at the girl who is dressed like a flower. Maybe even comment on her stem being too clumsy. Or how her petals are too plucked. And as I walk toward her trunk, the earth crunching beneath my feet, I stretch my hand out. I rub my palm along her slender, chalky white, trunk. And in another language, I softly speak, I know I am as untamed as the grass that is tickling my knee.