There is a tree that speaks to me. That’s how I know it’s alive. Its speech is like hunger in my stomach. I understand it. Like me, it’s alone. It sits on the shoulder of Colston Place, breaking through dying concrete. It reaches out to the forest of buildings with leaves of glass, thirsting after rivers of cars flowing with clogged rage.
But the tree, it starves.
In the city, I am crushed, compacted into smaller versions of myself, but under this tree I feel my soul stretch and open out. You cannot hear it over the roaroaroar of people pumping legs, mouths, exhausts. It all screams. But I can hear this tree. We bloom together in spring under its confetti of cherry blossom, we wilt in the heat of summer, lose something in the autumn, and become bones in the winter.
It’s more alive than the entire city, and…
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