What’s left of the beach crowd, a group of five old pinion pines watch from their perch on the hillside. Drenched squeals spin in the air, splashes and scattered sprays fall on dunked skin wearing the sun crystals of late summer. In my imagination if they could speak one of them might say: There’s a rare gift we get when you’re not here, an unforgiving soaking on a dark day. A unique feast when it’s our turn to yell and splash inside with joy.
More of a bother is envy. Your wild nonsense riles our sap, our branches quiver and throw needles and like foolish old cripples, we have to be careful not to disturb our roots. And just so you know, it is not that we live such a long time, it’s that we take such a long time to die.