Mornings have a damp, cool
breath, flavored with
dust and a bitter taste
of mold. The Ash trees know
first, dropping tiny, dried out leaves
in small collections. A new wind
scatters them, calling out
a fierce message, sometimes
muffled, sometimes screamed.
The Oak and Maple leaves
take on a dusty hue. Curled
brown edges roughen
bright green outlines. High
branches droop announcing
an unwilling surender.
The Fir tree towers of dark green
don't care, their soft
green fingers, fragrant mysterious
bodies rooted in living
unchanged with repeating seasons.
Does evening, hurrying to
catch up with night
speak in whispers and
tell the trees?
Or do the trees, tired
of producing green brilliance
and knowing the end,
tell the night?
