Poetry

Trees, trees

Trees, trees You have quit the city. If the trees overtake your thoughts they change them. Keep driving. Pines might form wind breaks but crowd each lonely farmer’s place with forest darkness. Worse, when you sweep through myriad eucalypts, headlights probing flickering trunks, you release white, splintery shapes that escape, shrieking up the slopes. The whole of life is a good fright. Avoid trees. Stick with the roadways, our natural element. Anywhere else only betrays the myth of human settlement.

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