they heard the sporadic, yet consistent cry of disregard that each tree trunk told.
one owl flew.
the same owl as the night before.
old wings.
weary eyes watched the tree trunks.
he called back to his lover.
returning not, that night.
soon the sky was quiet,
and the owl was perched on an unfamiliar, foreign, yet comforting wooden branch,
talking trunks beneath him.
they watched.
they sipped fresh liquids upon each wakening, and stretched above each ant, beetle and other infinitesimal being with a beating heart.
they lay under the owl.
and around the talking trunks.
they were millions among millions.
they listened, and watched.
they were the best blades of grass...
i've ever layed in.
