Those trees raise aged hands toward heaven high. Their fingers stretch for the sky, but they cast dark shadows into a darker night, singing songs forever, never-ending into nothing, past the reach of the headlights. They're old, knotted and wise, and they catch the wind, grin, avert their eyes from meeting mine, and suck those secrets deep inside. We used to whisper in one another's ears, but those oaks have secrets that stretch back for years, and now they hold the key ' selfishly ' to the wind on which to fly.