trifle leaf

Bleak summer winds. Intense glare.

They live for it, these photosynthetic organs. They do.

A break of a smile, not even. Suffice to say, we do not give credit for the marvel of cool shades these often times minute panels afford us without the slightest contempt in their veiny, ovate structure. Yes, we do not. And yes, they know.

How so?

Signal transduction my friends. Simple. An entirely alien, yet natural key to synchronize gossip at the crown where they reside. Exactly. A gossipmonger, one might echo. To provide breadth and spread wisdom across a field of endless canopies, they do communicate. Something terribly uncomfortable, these greens and browns talk - in a language increasingly familiar, but totally distinct. If you are able to shut down 15 sounds and noises from your surroundings (Yes, our ears can only manage 18 sounds at once), you might hear them, conversations of a different caliber, understandable, weird. They come out in a sort of whisper coupled with the buzzing of an insect wing, constance. Hoarse whisper - almost the right description, but missing something. What is it? A quiet cacophony, a hollow echo in the noggin, a breakfast sunrise sound? Does sunrise even have a sound? Well, it kinda does. A sweet flush of pineapple, orange, and four seasons. There. Sunrise.

A joint cause, they both have. Gigantic rain trees mushroom in parallel rows, across Hibbard and quite almost to the yonder sea. They reach out, medusa heads towards the greater beyond of high noon. The sun, you might ask? "Happily conducting a choreographed mime of trees."

"Respect. You need to respect them, gangly fellows."
"Walking around in a rainbow of colored bark, they are."
"Curious. they shy away from the sun."

"Massey, stop rubbing against me!"
"I can't help it,Rita. The winds are coming down."
"Ooh, you've ruined my day, you did!"

A hushed murmur over the crown spread like fire. Everybody were saying, "Look at the storm comin'. It migh' hit us hard."
"Ooh, I wish I wasn't this old. I think it's my time to go. I might get abscised."
"I hope you do old leaf! The leaflets need the sun, and you're up there takin' it all in! Geez, get a move on."
Old leaf was stricken with grief. He lost his vigor, his turgor. He bowed down in shame, his petiole slightly creasing.