A balmy late afternoon up the creek. I listen to the breeze discussing the day's events first with the alarmist alders, then the fearful firs, then the melodramatic maples, and finally with the oaks. What the oaks tell the breeze is soothing, and the breeze falls silent for a time. A man sits at leisure, sipping a lemonade and watching the road by which his wife will return. The breeze starts up with a "But what if..." and the round begins. The oaks stroke their lichen beards, and straighten their mossy backs, and explain it all once again to the flighty breeze.
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