Aristocratic oaks and hickories move their limbs languorously choosing on whom to bestow lemon light or shade, like bishops disseminating the words of the sun.
Irreverent children climb branches, pick at bark and hang upside down screaming, Look at me! Look at me! clattering up trunks and fly from runneled brow to eyelash
The pileated woodpecker with red-spiked hairdo knocks away and doesn’t care who hears. He knows the truth. Under their robes the trees have bugs.
