At night we hear them laughing their bony laughs, swinging above us in the branches, whooping. They’re so alive, the dead, their delight infectious, bright lemons of joy shimmering with darkness.
Their big hats—oh the finery!— in the trees in silk and feathers, so inappropriate when they were here. How people would talk!
But listen, they whisper to us: Do it now, do it while you can, do the crazy thing. Wear the hats, eat the lemons, climb to the top of the tall tall tree
in all your foolish glory.