There’s something different about the air at Wave Hill, the
public garden in the Bronx on the cliffs above the Hudson River. Perhaps it’s
because the wind usually comes from the west, straight from the Palisades
across the river and hits you right there on the bluffs.
Perhaps it’s because
the garden’s juxtaposition of sweeping vistas and intimate nooks creates
unpredictable air currents. Or perhaps it’s because the trees here are
generally not clustered in groves but stand alone, free to interact with the
elements on all sides. When the wind blows, all sides of the tree move with it,
and often don’t touch any other trees. Walking through the garden on a windy
day is rather like meandering through an orchestra pit in the midst of a
symphony: as you pass each tree, its unique tone sounds out for a moment
against the sibilance of the trees around it.One such tree is the venerable copper beech located on a
quiet patch of lawn between the aquatic garden and the shade border. More than
a hundred years old, it has elephantine bark, silvery gray and in places marked
by wrinkles so intricate it seems to be melting. The boughs dip to brush the
ground.
One afternoon last week, as I wandered the gardens, I felt
the breeze stiffen, and the sun shuttled behind clouds. A stray raindrop
splattered onto my bare arm. I took shelter beneath this beech tree and was
struck by the sound of the leaves rustling in the building wind: a susurration
that moved in a wave around the circumference of the tree. The leaves whispered
with brief pauses in between movements, almost as one might to soothe an
anxious child: shhhhh (now) shhhhhh. And
as the breeze died, the sound died in a hiss almost like the tide receding
along a sandy shore—only to build again.
I moved to stand closer to the leaves, which were thick,
oily, and mahogany colored, gently cupped like hands waiting to receive the
coming rain. But up close, the sound was not nearly so remarkable, more of a
papery touch, barely audible.
Stepping back from the tree into the garden, I saw the
tree’s bodily sway in the breeze was just as soothing, as parental, as its
sound: a listing to accommodate the strange, changing air, just enough to keep
it flexible, just enough to keep it strong.
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