The trees are dancing in maiden-form. Wispy, intangible as sunlight reflected briefly from the old spider’s web. They speak in giggles and in riddles, and parade triumphantly across manicured grass. Celebratory in their haughtiness, singing the songs of their names, each one magnificently crowned.
Yellow, orange, red, gold… Glorious! For it is Winter, and the leaves must fall. But first, they must dance, while singing a dirge of truth that I must not deny.
Tall and strong and proud, the trees, and more knowing than we… who believe we rule the world. Hubris. We rule nothing, and the trees will laugh, while soaking up our nutrient rich corpses. Like leaves, will we fall away. Like leaves, will we decay.
And they will not remember our names, for who among us shall remember theirs? But yet they laugh, and yet they sing… I hear them, but shall I remember? I am only human; a fallible thing, to be sure. But I will treasure this gift, brief as it may be, to have heard the songs of the trees.