Walking the dog.
I stop in front of a 96 Forest Drive.
I linger on their lawn.
The shades are drawn.
The house is quiet.
The light rain drifts lazily down from the bleak sky.
I find myself in a staring contest with an White Pine tree,
My eyes are unblinking before its naked branches.
The bark is worn a way in certain places
Exposing the brighter beige wood laying beneath the trunk’s outer surface.
A few lonely skinny branches extend out above the sidewalk,
And tiny tears are dripping slowly from them.
It makes me sad.
I blink.
The tree does not.
It sits on Forest Drive among the lawns, houses and driveways that replaced their namesake long ago.
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