The trees above my head whisper to each other,

The wind slipping through their hair.

Their skin is rough from standing outside for so long,

Watching for those human trespassers who desecrate their mother.

As the squirrels run through their arms

They laugh,

And sticky tears of sap roll down their faces.

They bow to the storm as he thunders through

And shed their clothes to the blankets of Winter,

Knowing full well that Spring promised to buy them a new wardrobe come April.

They stand proud.

They are trees.