I don't know the names of the trees here. I can watch them and be delighted, without knowing. It's a relieft. I get this fatigue of words. I can't see how we should be doing without. I can't see how we can understand anything with them. It's so hard for the birch to be anything but birch once it is named. The thousandfold of heartshapened leaves are not little bells in the breeze anymore. If they ever were. Or golden stars winking at you in October. Or glinting knives in the night. They become leaves of a birch, just another establishment, though a beautiful one.
I haven't seen any birches in Antigua. I don't know what I see. And what I see does not know my name yet.
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