The sun goes down early here, in the valley, and the trees on the other side of the valley have a bright sky to show themselves against, inky black lines, each line a history of the tree's life flowing to find the best bit of sun, their specific shapes recognisable, each species with its own contours, revealed in their essence now that the leaves are gone.
Trees put all the toxins they do not need into their leaves before they drop.
So when we kick our way joyfully through the piles of odoriferous leaf fall, we are wading through tree crap.
They must think we are disgusting.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment