It was the time of Sennei again. We stand in our lines, along the avenue known as the windwhistle corridor, males to the left, females to the right.
We all lean forward holding our magnificent freshly green head-dresses steady. Having practised our lines for many days we bow low and whisper our self-composed love sonnets in the allocated ear of our chosen intended.
Each of us males has a rival with whom we stand shoulder to shoulder facing a selected female, hoping that the young future brides would choose us. If she cannot make a decision between the two beaus chosen for her then duels will have to take place. The prize, a bride with whom to mate and procreate.
For now, while the breeze is gentle the only sound that the people walking between us would hear is the familiar, soft rustling of the leaves. All oblivious to the seriousness of the ritual taking place above their heads.
If a duel becomes necessary then the pair have to wait until there is a gale. Each tree is lashed against his opponent till one gives way. Some of these duels become quite violent with the occasional loss of limbs, even death by uprooting but this is rare as it would not gain anything for the species only the victor.
Most of the time the females are able to choose the strongest of the pair and accept the gentle brushing of their pistils with our anthers containing the fertilising pollen.
Now the wind plays another important role as the seeds may be carried far away from the avenue to land in another inviting area of ground, take root and at the mercy of the grazing deer or rabbits attempt to start a new plantation of trees. In time they will have their own Sennei in their own avenues.
When the pen takes control. 