“Yes?” Was that the hazel talking? Or just the wind in the tree’s branches? “Excuse me, but I’m looking for a good pencil.” There was no answer. The poet raised her voice a little. “The crows sent me.” “The crows, is it?” It was definitely the hazel tree. The poet couldn’t tell where its mouth was, but the voice had sort of a woody tone. “And do you have good paper?” “Yes. From the dragon.” “So. You’ve been to the dragon, and spoken with the crows. Well. I’d best give you a pencil, then.” The hazel tree dipped down one of her long branches. “Break off a twig.” 21. The poet reached up, and then paused with her hand on a hazel twig. “Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.” The hazel chuckled a deep, wavery, woody chuckle. “Bless you, child. You won’t hurt me.” The poet wasn’t a child, but she couldn’t take offense—the hazel sounded old, as old as the mountain, or the sea. The poet carefully broke off a twig.
