The trees here in rural Kansas are wilder than the ones I’m used to in suburban Florida. Not in how they grow, but in their personality. They don’t give me a warm fuzzy feeling; they’re more stand-offish, more independent. Proud. Skeptical. Not unfriendly, but not quick to warm up to you either. They are, in other words, Kansan trees.
I did get a feeling closer to this in Hammock Park, where I understood for the first time that there are trees and there are Trees. Grand old oaks that talk to themselves about secrets older than the town that built itself up around the hammock. Trees who know more about coyotes and spiders than about fences and fertilizer.
I get the feeling the trees around here are not quite adjusted to houses and roads and weekend barbeques. But the afternoon wind that blows in a thunderstorm from the west: that still shivers them with joy.