Heat finally broken, sun fades into horizon. Wind picks up, leaves shiver against blue gray sky, twitterpated in dissipating heat. Their spiky offspring dangle, waiting for their own chance at ground, water, and sky. The world awakens again, reprieved. Trees breathe.

This is their jungle, their forest, and their domain. Petrified, concrete collected around them, illusions of permanence believed by the flesh who moves among in steel and glass.

In the end the smallest bits can’t be seen; they will survive. In cracks and crevices, pushing through to make their own space.

Until then, the flesh roars this evening, getaway street race rubber screeches against asphalt, sirens wailing next. Bewildered birds flutter, look for their stillness to claim.

When flesh noise fades away in time, wind and rains will take their place. They own this world and its trees, with all prickly drop seeds, annoying temporary flesh, and the microbes that remember.