I am greedy; I want them all to speak to me. White pines try so hard to speak in a way I can understand--I can almost do it now. I want to understand their laments and rages, and their lullabies. I want to hear the love confessions of the poplars and the birches. When I'm seeking memories, I want the bristlecone pines to tell me about when they were seedlings, and I want the gingko to reach into its ancestral past and tell me about when pteranodons flew overhead. I want the mangroves to tell me about liminality and the bamboos to tell me whether they are more grass or tree. I want the strangling fig to tell me what it's like to squeeze hewn stones. I want lodgepole pines to tell me what it's like to spring to life in fire.