the trees were talking to other trees, of black bodies, departed doors pulled from their hides, a coming landscape burnt on chemicals and electrons that the sun got tired of fighting off light years away.

they say, it’s not so bad, and more than anything they mourn the passing of cool hand luke, of lew harper, fast eddie. like all trees they never give in on a certain level. that would be like saying he was never here, and they know better.