Eavesdropping On Trees

The tops of the trees are speaking but,
I don’t know the language.
The backdrop beyond and behind is away from the sunset.
It is a very shy, gray sky, which says nothing.

I wonder why they are talking in public,
When it is so much more intimate among the roots and fungus?
Could it be, they are just assholes, like
That neighbor, with the political signs in his yard, all year long?
What void is he trying to fill?
Still feeling the disappointment
Of being picked last in the 6th grade football game
During gym class?

I have more faith in trees.
An oak, so independent, starting as an acorn,
Adapting to the random home of earth,
Immediately after its mother sent him on its way.

Creating roots without privilege,
Nourished by the great spirit of the soil.
The soil filled with life through death
Speaks as little as the shy, gray sky.
Allowing the oak to be an oak.

Children will someday tie a rope and an old tire
To one of the branches.
Screaming and laughing until,
An aged child with children,
So full of bills and spreadsheets and dogma,
Shouts, “Stop.”
Stop……stop……stop...
Muffled by the leaves and whispers of wisdom atop the canopy.
Another acorn takes a chance.