Sophisticated trees line State Street,
elegantly avoiding one another.
They pose
with thin, black limbs
silhouetted against the sky
and roots sunk deep
beneath concrete.
Up the canyon,
the rabble crowds close.
Scrub oak brushes up to aspen groves,
listens for whispered rumors.
Expectation spreads with the wind,
rattles bone-weary stands,
stirs lofty thoughts of quorumed pines.
Sap rises, buds swell, branches reach
to embrace dawning spring.
Back in the city,
trees carefully dress for Easter,
nodding to the new sun
almost as an afterthought.
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