Trees have a way of reaching us… without ever moving.
They don’t call out.
They don’t compete.
They simply are—
swaying gently in a rhythm authored by Mother Nature herself.
Comforting to some.
Mesmerizing to others.
And if you’re paying attention…
they’re quietly telling stories.
Now sure, we could talk bark.
We could debate leaf shape.
We could wander down a long botanical rabbit hole.
But that’s not why we’re here.
I want to tell you about them.
Two trees.
Sisters, really.
Standing tall in the open space of the John H. Chafee National Wildlife Refuge, visible from Boston Neck Road.
I’ve been driving past them for forty years.
Twice a day, most days.
That’s a lot of “hellos” for something that never says a word.
And yet…
They’ve said plenty.
They have seen a couple of centuries.
Let that sit for a moment.
A couple. Of. Centuries.
So I got to thinking…
What if they could talk?
What would they say?
Better yet—
What have they been saying all along?
Now listen…
We were here before the road had a name.
Before the hum of tires.
Before painted lines told you where to go.
Before anyone thought to call this place Narragansett.
Back then… it was quieter.
Not silent—no, never silent.
The wind always had something to say.
It moved through our branches like a storyteller…
carrying salt from the nearby Atlantic,
whispers from the marsh,
and the steady rhythm of waves long before you came to listen.
We remember when the land was cleared.
Men arrived with purpose.
Axes with conviction.
Stone by stone, they built the wall at our feet—
not knowing they were building a timeline.
We watched them.
Work.
Sweat.
Argue.
Laugh.
We watched generations begin.
We remember horses.
Then wagons.
Then machines that startled us at first—
snorting and rattling like impatient beasts.
We learned quickly.
You always bring something new.
And you always leave something behind.
We have seen love here.
Hands held while walking past.
Children climbing where they shouldn’t.
Picnics that lingered just a little longer than planned.
We have seen grief too.
Quiet moments.
Heads bowed.
People pausing… not because they had to,
but because something in this place asked them to.
Storms?
Oh… we remember those best.
We’ve bent in winds that would humble the proudest man.
Lost limbs.
Cracked.
Scarred.
And still—
Here we stand.
Not untouched.
But unbroken.
And you…
Yes, you with the camera.
We’ve seen your kind before.
But not quite like you.
You don’t just look.
You wait.
You notice the way the light leans into us…
how the sky wraps itself around our branches…
how time feels… different here.
You don’t take pictures.
You listen.
If we could tell you anything, it would be this:
Nothing here is new.
And yet… everything is changing.
And somehow—
Both are true at the same time.
So when you pass us again—and you will—
Slow down.
Not for us.
For yourself.
Because long after the road changes again…
after the next wave of “progress” rolls through…
We will still be here.
Waiting.
Watching.
Remembering.
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