The dead tree picks up no wind. Its stump dried and cracked. Weeds grow around it, sprinkled with a handful of thorny plants, green and fresh they dig their spikes into it. But the tree feels nothing. Bark and pieces of branch lie still from a summer many a year ago, covered in moss and fungus - a home for the insects. Clammy worms wriggle about under the sun, stiffening, drying up. Love birds peck each other from the distant telephone poles. "So is the way of the world" An old man tells me under the clouds.
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