And the trees take their last breath
before the mountain gets its luminous dusting for another season.
Below, the village smarts itself up
for photos
taken by every confectioner around
to be stamped on tins and boxes, ready to be discarded
without thought once the consumers have gorged themselves into stupor.
Yet when the year turns,
the people make to sweep away their sluggishness
with good deeds.
The trees reappear, breathing deep, refreshed,
and watch.
And listen.
In the distance, they spot small groups coming together
to tidy and repair.
They hope.
Treeshallow Musings 