The trees of the city – not the ones in the parks but the ones in the sidewalks and courtyards, surrounded by concrete – watch over us the way elders do, with endless patience and indulgence.
They say, “It is possible to survive even the strangulation of your roots.”
They say, “Make a home in me, little birds, and let your hatchlings grow here.”
They say, “Take some oxygen; it’s free.”
They say, “We are all going to die. It’s OK. We all may live again. Who’s to say?”
