I feel like the bare branches are like billions of fingers, reaching out to me, all connected to one hand. The fingers, getting weaker as the wind brushes by them.
The fingers fall off.
The leaves, like skin flakes, growing and regrowing.
The leaves like a million tiny moving beetles, crawling around toppling over each other.
The hollow branches, the wind whistling through the bark.
As if the wind is calling out to the tree.
It says, "Your cycle is almost over. The cycle of your existence."
