The dancing trees once crouched beside one another.
Their laughter flies in the face
of our reality.
Their aching toes spread wide in preparation for the movement.
They plan.
They don’t plan.
They hope.
They don’t hope.
They Be.
In the endless dance, timeless and contemporary.
Futile and filled with meaning.
I come back to they physicalness.
One dark umber.
One a muddy sienna.
With tones of agreement between them.