The pine trees have been on a lark,
a near-drunken orgy
of dropping their needles.
Swaying to the changing chords,
a riff their roots absorb
from the land itself,
they’ve become a festive forest
of greens and browns.
They celebrate
the changing seasons, happily mixing
resins of their own concoction.
Their multimodal whorls
and fertile candles improvising
on the harmonies of life and death
that they intuit from the humans
that dance under their boughs.
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