Though I’m still not crazy about the means, reading this story reveals some beautiful prose:
When it is cold enough…perfectly, incredibly cold, the trees moan and roar all the night. And in summer…ha! then it is all sex with them, seeds by the thousands, the air full of sex, spermy light, and the scent of pollen everywhere…They assert their ascendency, trees do, just look at that place out west–what’s its name? Mount Something-or-other, where the volcano sheared the mountain top?–they grow in moon dust there, in the sterility of ash, don’t you see?
This reminds me of the value of new media, where story is read atop a backdrop of visual imagery, where the flight into poetry is a natural stream of consciousness as one thought gives birth to another a generation away. A word triggers a memory and often, as in this story, a stressful situation is eased by gentler thoughts.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology