Trees Today

by Darryl Price


are my only real friends. They don't seem to

mind my shuffling down the dirty sidewalks

without acknowledging their mere scraggly

presences like friendly tombstones. They are

growing their hair out again. I've noticed

that much. We've got a shared blue egg sky cap

on the stove called sun.  They have such a long


near and dear history. It takes miles and

many more miles to even begin to

unwind it all properly. While my own

scribbled down story seems a bit shorter.

I'd like to keep my mind out of these dog-

brained winds right now, but you can see that it


probably doesn't really matter. I'm

still going to try to get inside a

small cloud on a hill and disappear from

anyone's view. No one will even know

I'm there, or not there, like a dark seed in

an opaque pod. I see a plastic bag

caught by its free handle in a tree branch


swinging like a monkey, but the tree seems

to be laughing at the gag as much as

the next tiny bush trying to push out

new frosty looking flowers with all its

might. Children on bikes are circling something

in the grass like killer whales. All I want


is to find my place in this weather and

sink into its non-inspiration for

a good while. I don't know why I'm telling

you this. Our sharing isn't exactly

love any more.  Something came along and

broke me a long time ago. Only trees

offer a sip of  something less bitter.