Autumn 1842 – These Old Boards Remember Their Lives as Trees

The kirkir stroked the wall of the barn. The logs twitched, like sleeping dogs stirring to a dream. 

“Please,” I said, “You must stop. It was wrong to call you. This is not your place.”

It took no notice of me. It listened to other commands. 

Father stretched the fingers of his hands. The bones and knuckles cracked loudly. “I fear we shall need to use other means to get its attention,” he said.